


oh boy, this sure is a minor setback from achieving my goal of clinical immortality

by i_believe_in_well_written_mary_sues



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Gaster is an asshole, Genre Savvy, Healthy Relationships, Other, Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Science, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, and goes "hey have yall ever fucking heard of uhhhhhhh, and i mean that in like the nicest possible way, and then dies very mysteriously of natural causes, but - Freeform, but the past of undertale, cloning??", either do it and stop feeling guilty abt it, first human falls in the late 2000s, if ur comfortable w skipping over those parts go for it, ish, look ive never played undertale and apparently gaster is a fairly minor character, m TRYING not to character bash, match made in heaven, oh god what the fuck am i doing, or FIND ANOTHER WAY, or at least afab reader, or something like that, or: a biochemist falls underground, reader is a closet asshole, reader is an adult, reader is dumb, so this is gonna take place in the future, the fourth human, who thought that killing a bunch of kids was a good idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_believe_in_well_written_mary_sues/pseuds/i_believe_in_well_written_mary_sues
Summary: It's your duty as best man and maid of honor to do the busywork so your friends can focus on their wedding instead of research. You absolutely do not expect to wake up strapped down to a cot.You're never helping out a physicist ever again.
Relationships: Sans (Undertale) & Reader, W. D. Gaster & Reader, W. D. Gaster/Reader
Comments: 34
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

So your best friends are getting married. And what greater gift can be given to two underpaid physicists than the grunt labor of their research done for them?

Only pure cash, that's what— and you'd rather do the dirty work, thank you very much.

You pack a nice hiking bag. No need for more than a sweatshirt and a good pair of tennis shoes; it's summer-autumn and Mount Ebott isn't exactly unfriendly. A pack of energy bars and snacks— your laptop is good, but not _that_ good. It'll be a good few hours to get what you need. A first aid kit, a power bank, mace, a flashlight, two water bottles (you're staying hydrated!), sunscreen, the works. Point is: you're prepared. You know your route, you have your (pilfered from the coat rack of the lab) permit to go where you want, your updated last will and testament (donate your body to science, give your notebooks to the freshmen in need, bury you with your favorite micropipette, if a bear mauls you give it an award), and your friends on the ground to freak out if anything happens that you're _not_ prepared for.

So here you are, maybe a kilometer from the public hiking trail, with a buggy radio, a buggy _backup_ radio, and a GPS tracker that you're going to bet your degrees is- wait for it- _also buggy_.

"What the literal fuck," you say into the dead radio, mostly for the dramatic effect.

This should be the point where you turn back. But you're not an old wise man, you're a stupid broke college student in your prime with a perfectly functional cellphone and a laptop and a wedding present to find. You're up on this mountain, you might as well get the readings you came for.

Sure, you could backtrack the approximate mile to the ranger station, but that would be _awkward_ and you didn't graduate early by being awkward! You graduated early by being very, _very_ awkward.

"You owe me _big_ time," you sing in the general direction of the Ebott College campus on the off chance that the newlyweds-to-be can hear you from the dorms. You're so busy lording your superiority over them that you very nearly trip into the holy grail of your hike.

There it is! The neat little crack in the clearing that stays vantablack dark, even at noon. On a mountain. With no cloud cover.

Perfectly normal and non-threatening!

"Hey sweetie," you coo at the crevice, carefully slinging down your bag to set up the equipment you'd borrowed. (It's not stealing, you're giving it back. You even left a note). "I'm going to stick a vaguely phallic shaped object inside of you in a manner not reminiscent of anything, okay? Let's not think about all the metaphors about science stripping down nature, there's a good girl."

The hole in the ground, rather rudely, makes no reply.

"Lie back and think of England," you advise, leaving the equipment to calibrate. You think you're so funny.

You don't stray too fa— you need to check on it every ten minutes. Not especially labor intensive, but just often enough to be annoying. You pass the first half hour cataloguing the nearby plants. You eat a twix. You engage in some mountainside yoga and nearly fall down the slope. You eat another twix. You have a staredown with a deer. You keep staring at the deer. The deer stares at you. The deer leaves. You eat an energy bar. You doodle the deer.

You're halfway through!

Nevermind. Technical difficulties. You remember to drink some of your water. You also remember to put on your sunscreen. Man, you're killing this whole hiking thing. You do idle cartwheels around the clearing. Fuck, you're out of twix. You open a reese's.

_Fuck,_ reese's down the vantablack hole. Hopefully it doesn't mess up the data. You make an annotation, just in case. You open up your maltesers, on the edge of the clearing this time.

You identify the nearby birds and insects. You give in to temptation and check your phone and— oh fuck, signal's out. No— back on. You're good. Earbuds in, a quick peek to make sure nobody's around, you dance.

_Now_ you're halfway done! You remember to take another sip of water. You sit yourself down and power through the last of the papers you're supposed to grade.

It's noon. The crack in the ground swallows the bright rays of sun streaming into the clearing, almost glowing with its lack of light.

You hum, and then whistle, and then bust out your singing repertoire. Good thing you got your birdwatching out of the way, because you've probably scared off everything within fifty feet.

Fuck, no. The fucking _deer_. You frown at it as politely as you can. Your will didn't account for being mauled by a deer. Something you'll have to rectify once you're done here.

Three fourths of the way done! You do a handstand against a tree with a lovely moss patterning on the bark while whistling what you remember of _Madame Butterfly_.

It's not a whole lot.

You suddenly remember that you brought your embroidery. You decide instead to practice your pirouettes.

One, two- chin up- three, four. Two, two, three-shoulders down- four. Three, two—

Wait.

What's that?

You edge closer to the crack and you're... you're pretty sure that that's—

You rummage through your bag, hoping— nope, everything except the reese's accounted for. You're fairly certain that it's not responsible for this.

You check the laptop screen, just to be sure. You run through the mental calculations with a sinking stomach, but it's just redundancy for what you know.

There's _light_ coming from the previously krish-kapoored vantablack asscrack in the ground.

Which should be normal, but it's _worse_ because a previous abnormality has become abnormal in the fucking opposite direction. There's visible light among the inky blackness and for the first time on this whole joytrip you wish that you had fucking—

Oh, you have a phone. You snap pictures and videos and send them as quickly as you can. Fuck, no signal.

You have to forcibly remind yourself that Mount Ebott is not and has never been a volcano. That there have only been two deaths (disappearances, but at this point it's deaths) so far, which is really far more concerning at this point than you'd paid any mind to previously.

You don't think that magma is supposed to give of a vaguely... _blue_ light either. Like those HID headlights on the cars that make the Department of Transportation weep. So what. The fuck.. _is_ that?

You're already on the ground, stretched out over the crack. You _know_ that it's less than a meter wide, you know that your bag had been left a full foot away and you definitely know that your laptop, still plugged in to the probe, just finished recording the data.

_At least everything autosaves,_ you think inanely. _Operation wedding present is still go._

And then you fall.

* * *

You wake up with a start, eyes flying open and a sob in your throat.

Wait. No.

You shut your eyes again and keep your breathing even.

In, out. Sleep patterned breaths. No holding it in, no crying. In and out, nice and easy.

First things first.

Nothing had happened when you first opened your eyes without thinking, so you're either unmonitored or being humored.

What had you seen, in those few panic-blurred moments?

Sterile tiled ceiling. Blue-white fluorescent lighting.

Well. Not too helpful. You could be anywhere with electricity to spare.

What do you hear?

A low murmur in the background. Beeping, maybe. The hum of air conditioning. A faint echo of... music?

A hospital?

No. It's too early to jump to conclusions, meter wide crack or otherwise. The chemically clean smell of a hospital doesn't _mean_ hospital. Your labs had the very same smell— oh god, you can't think about that now.

You don't wiggle your fingers, but you still try to feel what you can, carefully holding yourself still. The slight pressure around your limbs confirms it—

You're tied down.

You can't feel any needles and you don't feel the numb tingling of anesthesia either, but it's better not to make premature conclusions. You think— yes, your shoes are still on. So.

This isn't the time to freak out, you carefully remind yourself. You're god-knows-where, tied down but not blindfolded, clothes on but pockets empty, and, most importantly: _still alive_.

What does that leave you with? 

You're not being held for ransom. You're not rich, and you're not irreplaceable either. All the research you've done is carefully recorded, all of your specialized knowledge published in papers. Not revenge. You've done nothing to piss anyone off— not on this level, anyways.

So what did you do different to get captured _now_?

Oh. The whole _going off on your own on a mountain to look at a fucking hole in the ground_ thing. Right. The data you were collecting isn't worth this much effort, it's not because of that. But you're—

You're a young girl. One that happens to be fucking gorgeous, thank you very much. But that _also_ means—

No. You can't assume that. If the facilities you're being held in are this nice, it implies a level of organization that won't risk trafficking girls like you. You're not famous, but you do have people that will look for you. Too much effort for too little reward.

It could always be an eccentric millionaire with too much time on their hands, but you prefer not to think about that.

So where _are_ you? And if blacking you out was deliberate, why were you allowed to wake up?

_Eccentric millionaire with a sadistic streak,_ your mind persists doggedly. _A clean area to murder or torture or—_

Right. You firmly tell your brain to shut up. If you _are_ kidnapped, then the best thing to do is to humanize yourself, isn't it?

You open your eyes, quickly flickering them around. Oh. This is—

_A lab_.

You start talking, mentally parsing through what you see. "Hey, where am I? What's going on? I was on the mountain getting a wedding present for my friends— Marissa and Cole, by the way. I introduced them. Lots of third wheeling, honestly— I was getting their present and now I'm here? What, did I wake up from a coma or something?"

There. Weddings are relatable enough to the common public, right? You think you see a desk covered in photos in your periphery. "What time is it? Is it the evening? Oh man, it must be the evening."

You think you can make out a faint orange glow from the nearby windows. Which means that there's windows and also that it's _fucking sundown already_. "Oh gods, I'm gonna miss the bachelorette party that _I organized."_ There. Let ‘em know that people are going to look for you. You’ve hit all the main points, you think. So now what?

You keep talking, mostly because now that you've started you don't really want to stop. You chatter about anything and everything— your research, your pet fish, the killer sushi you'd had last week. You strain to make out the blurry wall past the desk but you _can't move your head_. "Hey, I'm all for being tied up," you say conversationally, because if you weren't being conversational you'd start panicking. "But at least buy me dinner first."

A laugh. Holy fuck _you hear a laugh_. It's a little distant but somebody's _listening_. 

" _I told you_ ," you hear a voice say, slightly muted. _"She's harmless. The only concern is transfer of pathogens, and that would affect her more than us. And she'd have been exposed already."_

Well _that's_ fucking reassuring.

Another laugh. Fuck, you'd said that out loud. There's some more indistinct chatter as you calmly keep yourself from screaming.

The doors whoosh open. Or. You assume it's the doors. You take an appropriate moment to appreciate the drama of the echoing footsteps that are quickly approaching.

You shut your eyes again. If you _are_ kidnapped, it’s better if you don’t get the chance to look at them. “Hello.”

“You’ve said that already,” the voice says disapprovingly, jarringly near. You almost jump. “Don’t be repetitive.”

You hear groaning from the other side of the door.

“I am _not_ being repetitive,” you say indignantly, because you think— holy shit, you might be... you shut down that train of thought. “I said _hey_ before, which is _markedly_ different from _hello_. It was only polite to greet you again, seeing as you finally decided to show yourself.”

Careful. You want to be interesting, but not outright hostile. Just like an interview.

Exactly like an interview.

“In that case, I concede,” they say, sounding faintly amused. More gasps from beyond the door. Your heart aches for a second for your friends. “You can open your eyes, you know. I assume you need to do so in order to see. If it helps, I promise that neither I nor my associates will attempt kill you on purpose without sufficient reason.”

“Reassuring,” you deadpan again. But, hey. If they wanted to kill you, they'd have done it already. You open your eyes and flick them sideways. You can't see their face, but you can see— a _lab coat_. And a striped nerd sweater. You don’t get your hopes up, but it’s a very near thing, because lab coat and lab equals _scientists_ and you have a good track record with scientists.

Well.

You _used_ to have a good track record with scientists.

“Can I ask why I’m tied down?”

“You can,” the voice says, a kind of glee in their voice that makes you want to punch them. 

“I’m guessing you don’t know much about socializing,” you say scathingly. Fuck, too scathingly. You’re scared and it’s slipping out. “Seeing as it’s _twice_ now that you’ve ignored linguistically correct norms in favor of enforcing your flawed intellectual superiority.”

_Laughing_ , from the doorway. 

The voice is laughing too. Well. If you’re going to be killed, it’s at least nice to know that you’re entertaining.

“You’re giving my employees a _field_ day,” they say with something close to respect, and you somehow feel the tension leech out of the room. Which is terribly unfair, considering that you’re still _tied down_. “So— and this is possibly the first time I’ve said this— you win.”

_More_ gasping.

“Is the prize freedom?” you bite, which is very kind of you, seeing as you’re giving them an opening for a pithy one liner before killing you. _Freedom in the sweet release of death_ who?

“ _Do_ you have a death wish?” they ask curiously, following your train of thought flawlessly. “That’s twice now you’ve given me _perfect_ setup.”

“And twice you’ve given me _terrible_ followthrough,” you counter sweetly. “So the score is still two-one, your loss.”

Game: set _and_ matched. Massacred tennis analogies aside, if they hadn't probably-kidnapped you, you'd probably be trying to make them your friend, because _hot damn_.

“And if I told you that you’ve missed one very important detail?”

“I’d ask your forgiveness for not being on my peak game while _still tied down_ ,” you say, not letting any of your frantic worry slip through. _What had you missed?_

“Miscalculation, to not test your restraints after regaining movement,” they sigh.

_What_.

“Your hands,” they add, sounding smug. “Not bound fully; tied with—”

“A fucking bow,” you breathe, fingertips brushing against the tails of a rope. A _soft_ rope. “Are you serious?”

“Worst case scenario, you end up pulling the trigger to a trap that leaves you no worse off than you are now,” the voice says like the conceited ass they are. “Willing to risk it?”

You’re already ahead of them though, wrist craned alarmingly forwards to tug the ends loose.

“I think it’s fair to call it even now,” you grin, shaking the scarf at them, because it is a scarf. They tied your hands down with _scarf_. “Two-two. A tie.”

“ _Was that a pun_ ,” they practically squawk, sounding truly furious for the first time in this whole exchange. 

“No,” you lie, easy words belying your frantic scrabble to free your head and neck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , you need to get out of this. The restraints seem unbearably tight all of a sudden. _You can't move_ — oh gods, you can't _move_ —

“If I help, will you do anything?” they ask warily.

“Yes,” you say pleasantly. Your voice manages to stay even, thank god. You don't know what's going on, but you still don't trust them. “Stay right there, please.”

They stay. If you’re kidnapped, you have some damn nice kidnappers. This is probably how Stockholm syndrome starts.

You fumble with the buckle and you’re almost there— _and_ —

You’re free. You can breathe. You barely stop yourself from hyperventilating.

The voice stays- oddly- silent.

The strap across your middle is velcro- you rip it off as you swing your gaze towards the voice, and—

Oh.

You've _definitely_ made a miscalculation. 

You manage to keep your face in an expression of bland friendliness, but it’s a very near thing.

“Hello, human,” the skeleton says, giving you a positively shit eating grin. “I’m Wing Dings G. Aster, the current Royal Scientist, though I usually prefer to go by Gaster. I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you, but— well. I think that’d be quite the lie to keep up with on both our parts.”

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so ive consumed maybe four (4) pieces of undertale media. one is that comic of gaster telling sans that his drawing sucks. another is that drawing of gaster drinking tea. i'm in love with both of them, so here it is: a fic where i fuck around with the idea of magic.  
> the goal is overly fluffy and domestic slice of life, but we'll see how i do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact! i genuinely did not know what gasters pronouns were until i wrote this chapter. u can already tell how good i am at outlining.

You can’t do this.

Oh god, you can’t fucking do this.

Your vision blurs as you slide off the table— you vaguely register the loopy rush of dizziness as you try to stand up and then you’re falling and you—

Oh _god_.

You’re injured. You’re dizzy and you’re injured and you’ve been lying on that table for _god_ knows how long and _you don’t know what’s happening_. You barely manage to put your weight on your feet before you’re collapsing, folding in a trembling mess of nerves. You squeeze your eyes shut and brace for impact, too weak to even attempt to break your fall. Your knees give way and— 

You don’t hit the ground.

There’s an echoing burst of static in the background, and you... don’t hit the ground.

The skeleton— Gaster— they’re standing in the same place. They’re not the one that caught you. Except… you twist your head to the side, ankles rolling for purchase on the linoleum.

You’re being held up by a pair of skeletal hands around your upper arms.

Unconnected skeletal hands.

You look back. Gaster’s left eye is glowing orange-blue, a color that should be _brown_ and yet somehow isn’t.

Oh. The same blue-orange light that came out of the hole in the ground.

You think that this is— you think it’s… 

You can’t deal with this right now. You shove the part of you that’s screaming _this is_ magic— _magic doesn’t fucking exist— it obviously_ does _because the evidence is right in front of you_ — under wraps with everything else, ruthlessly compartmentalizing it. _Later_. You can’t freak out, you _can’t_. You’re not safe yet.

“Right,” you say, voice shaky. You bite down on your cheek and _make_ yourself talk evenly. “Right. Thank you.”

They don’t mention the tremor that wracks your frame. You find yourself infinitely grateful for the small kindness. 

You take a breath. And you slap a smile back on. “Sorry about that. Just stood up too fast, you know how it is.”

An agonizing moment, where you hold your breath and pray that they'll let your swiss-cheese-holed excuse slide. A beat passes, and then two.

“I can’t say I do,” they say, thank god, wiggling their skeleton fingers at you with a decidedly unimpressed look on their face.

“Lucky bastard,” you say, studying the hands that are still taking the majority of your weight. They have holes in them. A _huge_ hole, in the palm of each. How does it _work_ ? You tear your gaze away, shoving your questions down away too. Later. “Unfortunately, I _am_ cursed with the misfortune of having blood. A terrible inconvenience, but it is what it is.”

You’re not babbling. Not yet. The nervous ball of energy in your stomach threatens to change that, but you’re good, for now.

“If you’ll excuse me,” you say flatly, shaking off the hands (oh god, oh god), because you need to _leave_ , you can come back and deal with this when you’re not a quivering _mess_. You need- you need time. You can’t stay here— you just need to _do something_.

You're a sparrow— a fucking _starling_ in this unfamiliar world of snakes, except you can't even fly, you have to stand on your _toes_ to even look them in the eyes. And now, like the tiny prey animal you are, you're going to run far, far away and pretend that you're okay.

“Of course,” they say graciously.

_“Thank_ you,” you say spitefully, before you bite yourself off. You set off towards the door, refusing to acknowledge the _skeleton_ behind you, keeping your eyes pointed forwards. You see the peanut gallery scatter. You don’t know where you’re going, but that’s fine. You just need to _move_.

“Don’t you want to know?” comes Gaster’s voice from behind you. 

It’s conversational, almost indifferent. Slow moving coils, bared fangs and a warning rattle. You don’t stop.

They continue, unhurried. “Are you really going to be content with ignorance, no matter how temporary? Really?”

The jaws snap shut around you. You were wrong, it's not a slow constriction you can run from. It's a sniper-accurate _strike_. You’re halfway to the door when the tight coil of frantic desperation in your stomach flares, burning through your core. _How dare they_.

“You asshole,” you laugh, tight and shaking with an emotion you finally recognize. “You _fucking_ asshole.”

They won’t even let you leave in peace for ten _fucking_ seconds.

“I get that an awful lot,” they say, still offhand. “But I suppose if it helps you feel better—”

You’re not angry. You’re _curious_ , burning up with it, with the same drive that made you chase after your internships abroad, the same drive that forced you to Ebott.

You’re almost vibrating in place, fingers jittering out a weak staccato against your thigh. You spin around, still bouncing on your toes, and you catch the ends of the self-satisfied smile that crosses their face. They’re confident, and they have every right to be, because you _can’t_ walk away. Not like this. 

(fucking scientists)

It’s that restless ocean inside you that forces you to say, “Fine. Tell me about it.”

It’s after the words come out, not petulant, but raw, with a wild excitement— that you realize that there’s a hysterical laugh bubbling under your words, a savage hunger curling your lips, lighting your eyes.

You want to know.

Their answering grin is just as feral.

“I can do you one better,” they say, something turbulent barely contained by the syllables and underneath the surface, something wonderful that you think you could _see_ , if you could just reach in and find it.

You want to _know_.

Their grin turns wider, slashing through their face. And then you feel it.

Magic. 

You feel sparking against your skin and cold biting at your lungs and the swooping of potential energy in your stomach and you think—

It’s okay to be selfish, just this once.

You walk forwards, every step thrumming with the magic reverberating through your body and the room, oscillating waves that you can _feel_ , like you’re so much jello in a bass boosted speaker.

Your heartbeat is loud in your ears. You can almost feel your blood thumping and rippling with the heavy buzz in the room, dissonant and setting your teeth on edge, ready to shatter, infrasound buzzing in your bones and flesh.

You stop before them, still rocking on your toes, and stick your hand out and in to the electrically charged arc that lashes around them.

“Okay,” you say, instant spite curling beneath your grin as you have to crane your head back to look them in the eye. You let it show. You refuse to respect somebody taller than you.

Bone meets your hand, incongruously warm and gentle. “A pleasure,” they say, words distorted with electromagnetic interference throbbing in your ears. 

The churning pressure disappears a moment later, clamped back under careful control.

You find, to your morbidly intrigued horror, that you miss it.

"...You win," you say, deflating, swaying from the sudden lack of pressure. You sink onto the nearby desk, truly exhausted for the first time since this whole shit show started. You suddenly feel very, very small. "I... you win. What's up, Sock n' Buskin?"

"I'm glad you asked," Gaster says, looking utterly delighted with your compliance.

You kind of want to cry.

* * *

You run your eyes over them as they talk, feeling much more comfortable observing them now that they're not hovering over your peripherals anymore. _Sock and Buskin_ was right— Gaster _does_ look an awful lot like one of those Greek traumedy masks, for a skeleton. Not the cracks in their face, though. You don't particularly want to know how they got those.

Their bones don't _look_ like bone. You'd had a taxidermist enthusiast friend, back in your freshman year. Even their most well-preserved, whitened bones were still dull and dry. Gaster looks faintly... translucent? No, that's not the right word. They... look like carrara.

You're forcibly reminded of the art history class you'd audited a while back for the shits and giggles. The only part that you _really_ remember is the professor's tangent on sculpting. She'd sworn up and down that marble was _the_ material for sculpture, because it was the only stone that had the subsurface scattering that mimicked human skin, giving the sculptures a depth of realism beyond the surface.

You'd never been able to see it, yourself. You think you finally know what she was talking about now. 

You idly rub your fingertips together as they explain— _no it's not evening— it's barely been an hour since you were found— the orange is from the local magma, not the setting sun._

“One hour? You guys work fast,” you murmur. Your sore muscles definitely _feel_ like you've been tied down for the whole time. Which left them maybe ten minutes to imprison you in this lab. Med bay? Thing. You still don't know where you are.

“It was a matter of delicacy,” Gaster shrugs. “The King has an order out for humans, which brings me to your... first question.”

_An order out for humans_ your ass. Very diplomatic.

You listen with interest as they describe the Barrier trapping monsterkind down here, and how they've technically got you here without the knowledge of the king. It’s… interesting, and you're tempted to believe them. And then they go on to talk about… souls? Something must show on your face, because they say, “Don't know what I'm talking about, do you?”

How very fucking astute of them.

"The quickest way is to show you," they say. "Fair warning, though— it's fairly intrusive."

"Can I get full disclosure?" you ask warily. "Health risks? Adverse effects? A _once you rip your soul out you can never get it back again_ type situation?"

A quiet huff of laughter. "No, nothing like that. Pure cut and dry privacy issues. It's very... _emotional_. And revealing." They say it like something particularly distasteful. Which, fair.

You want to ask more, but at the same time, you're _tired_. "I'm down," you say, mentally ditching the last of your reservations. Hell, if magic's in the equation, you're not qualified to handle _any_ of this. Might as well go with the flow. You decide to consider this a… temporary educational exchange. You were due for one anyways, even if it was supposed to be Germany and not… under the ground. "Emotional and revealing? Can't fucking wait."

They don't deign to answer your _admittedly_ weak response. They don't need to, because the world fades as something... _blue_ appears.

You want to laugh. It’s blue and _heart shaped_ and bright and has obnoxious green and yellow swirls cutting through it. It’s an absolute _eyesore_.

You adore it.

The realization occurs to you belatedly, as you finally look at Gaster. Oh. Is... is this your soul?

Well.

They jot down notes, eyes narrowing as they stare at your soul. “I've drawn you into an Encounter,” they say, voice oddly echoey. “It's often done in combat situations— fair warning, _do not_ — but it does enable you to perform certain actions. Try CHECKing me.”

You do, skipping over the FIGHT option, as much as you want to see what would happen. You take a second to push away the incredulity like you have everything else so far. 

***GASTER - ATK ???? DEF ????**

***His pronouns are he/him, so you can stop misgendering him already.**

***Misses comic sans and the egg.**

What the fuck. What the fuck, you're in a video game. You ignore it. All this repression is going to come back to bite you in the ass, but at least you can still _function_ right now. A win for compartmentalization. “Can I ask what Comic Sans and _the egg_ are?” you say, tilting your head to the side. “Is everything down here named after fonts? Why are there so many question marks?” You wave a vague hand at them before realizing that you don't actually know if they have physical form. Your brain hurts, and— guess what! You follow your time honored tradition of making it a problem for later. “For your attack and stuff?”

He looks genuinely _surprised_ for all of two seconds before his face smooths back over. “Sans and the egg are… my foster children, I suppose— well, the egg is really still only an egg. And no, just the skeleton monsters. The question marks are my… stats, you can say. That’s odd, I wonder…" 

You almost open your mouth to say _there’s different kinds_? before you decide that that’s probably insensitive. So that means the question marks _aren’t_ normal. You file it away for later, flinching as something _shifts_ in the room. Gaster stares intently a little to the right, where you're pretty sure your stats are showing. 

“Well. Trying to get you out of here is what you’re here for,” he says finally, two of his hands disappearing as he sets a notebook down. 

That was what your status said? You... don't really like it, even if it is convenient. You see what's up with the whole _privacy_ thing now. You push it aside again. “Mind explaining?” you ask, as your stomach rumbles. You very carefully do not flush. 

He flashes you a grin. Damn him. “Hungry?"

"I wonder why," you say flatly, refusing to humor him. Fuck, you never _did_ eat your last energy bar. "Must be going delirious from all the imprisoning."

His face doesn't so much as twitch. You're reluctantly impressed. "I'll explain over lunch, then. You'll have to stay here for the time being, so— are sandwiches acceptable?"

"Sounds great," you say truthfully. “Soooo, uh. I’m just… here now? Indefinitely? Like, I’m not seeing a shower, or, uh… enrichment.”

He finally winces. “This is simply a temporary… holding area. You’ll have to go through some more psychological assessments, but you should be out soon enough if you agree to undergo further experimentation.”

“Great,” you say, deciding to, once again, _deal with it later_. “Lunch, then?”

He explains things over cute little cucumber sandwiches. You almost want to laugh, but that'd be a dick move, because they taste fucking _heavenly_. They fizzle out a little in your mouth, and you feel infinitely better after eating a couple. He explains that they’re infused with magic, and perfectly safe for human consumption. You idly wonder how many humans they’ve tested magical food on.

The sandwiches come out of a lunchbox in a tiny fridge, and that’s when you realizes that he's literally shared his own lunch with you. Which. You'd expected- well. You hadn't expected anything, but _definitely_ not this. 

“I usually pack extra,” he says, in response to your unspoken question. “Sans ends up losing his lunch more often than not. So unless he’s managed to drop his into the magma in the past five or so minutes since I last checked, he’s completely fine.”

You let your lips quirk up, recognizing the ceasefire for what it is. “Sounds like a cute kid.”

You let off some small talk. Apparently Sans is _very_ into astronomy at the moment. You can relate; your own astronomy phase lasted from middle school well into high school. Once you've taken a sip of tea from his thermos, he goes on to explain the experiments he wants to do.

You listen in fascination as he explains the presence of determination in human souls, and how little of their own monsters have. He talks about how he can extract the main parts of human souls and use them as a substitute to break the barrier- souls are made of emotions, and emotions can be regenerated. It seems clear enough to you, and he provides the abstracts and background for you to read when you ask for them.

“Holy shit,” you say, attention captured against your will. “Holy _shit_. This is—"

Fucking genius, honestly. But you refuse to say that, he's still the asshole that didn't let you go off to cry in a corner feeling sorry for yourself.

He still looks disgustingly self satsfied.

It seems legit (and fucking _fascinating_ , but you have enough dignity left to not go mad scientist when you should still be terrified) and you don’t particularly want to die, so of course you agree to the experiments.

"Right," you say, details of your schedule all hashed out (an hour three times a week, subject to change as befitting your status of lab rat). "This is... _great_ , it honestly is, but. I have literally fallen down here against my will and I am fucking _exhausted._ "

He has the decency to look ashamed.

* * *

You learn that the space you were jailed in is the local medbay of the Core. And that you're putting some poor bastard out of work.

"It's only Dots," Gaster says dismissively. "He's probably crying from sheer joy at having a whole afternoon off."

"Oh, sure, it's only Dots," you say, just short of snarky. "Well. Tell him that I'm happy to help."

"You can tell him yourself," he says, leaning back. "Considering that you're going to be here for quite a while."

Right.

Repress it. Man, you're getting good at this.

" _Axol_ ," Gaster calls. You jump, and then realize that _Axol_ is probably a name. He turns to you. "They're in charge of finances. I assume you'll need some help— hash it out with them. If you'll excuse me."

A fucking _axolotl_ presses him back into his chair as he tries to stand up. Or maybe they're a mudpuppy? It's hard to tell. Either way, at least you know how they got their name. "Oh no you _don't_ , Gaster. This whole thing was your idea, you don't get out of it that easily."

He shrugs, barely fazed. "Had to try."

"Of course you did," they mutter. "Well. Hello, human. I'm Axol. How _are_ you holding up?"

"Pretty terribly," you say. "Considering I was just torn from my home with nothing but the clothes on my back."

"Oh, I forgot," Gaster says. You see Axol thunk their head down on the table in frustration. "You were found with a bag and a laptop. And some other things. We took the liberty of removing them from your person. Safety precautions, you understand."

Bitch.

" _Bitch_ ," you snarl. "And you just conveniently _don't mention it?"_

"I just did," he points out serenely. 

Of for love of— "Give me them," you snap, fingers curling into the edge of your sweatshirt. " _Give 'em to me_."

You don't question how they fell down with you. But you do know that your laptop was recording the anomaly when it happened, and you _still don't know_ how you fell down here, but maybe your laptop—

"You _do_ remember that there's no signal to the outside world?" Gaster questions mildly, but his eye is glowing and your things are floating over so you ignore him. 

You practically snatch the laptop out of the grip of his magic, skin tingling from the contact for a bare second. You flip it open and scrabble in your password, mentally singing your thanks to whatever deity kept your stuff relatively undamaged.

No signal, as expected. And the data you've so painstakingly collected...

Thank _god,_ it's all here.

"I'll need the compiler. Or, uh. Access to a computer in general," you say. They won't have the compiler, but you think you can recreate it. The data might not be worth anything, but—an anomaly in the hole, and then you fall into it— it might be a coincidence, sure, but...

"What's that?" Axol says, peeking over your shoulder. "Is that...hey, Gaster—"

"What?" he says, tapping idly at your phone— _bitch_. He sets it down long enough to look over.

"Look familiar?" they prod. 

He goes very still. "What were you doing before you fell."

It's not a question.

How... how _had_ they found you so quickly after you fell, anyways? "You guys were looking at it too?" you say in disbelief, because there's coincidences and then there's _this_. Or. Is it really a surprise that two independent teams decided to monitor an anomalous situation? Using the same method?

You're not sure, but you feel the beginnings of excitement. 

"We have data from both sides, then," Gaster says, with genuine enthusiasm. It's almost strange, seeing him so animated when the only things you've seen him excited about mostly had to do with making fun of you. But he managed to become the Royal Scientist for a reason, you remind yourself. 

Still, it brings up a very pressing concern.

"Are you a _physicist_?" you say, horrified.

A snicker. "What, are you liberal arts? Mind your own business."

"I'm a _biologist_ ," you say indignantly. Fuck physics. You consider his actions so far. Yes, physics explains quite a lot.

"A biologist? Oh, me too," Axol beams at you. "And Gaster won't admit it, but he's better at the practical aspects. Still very much a physicist, but _also_ an electrical engineer. He-"

A hand appears to cut them off, physically pinching their... lips? together.

You take a second to register their words. "Oh, an engineer," you say, relieved. That's better. You turn your attention back to your laptop in order to smack his hands away from the keyboard. "I'll send you the data, timestamped so you can cross reference, don't worry," you say, forestalling his objections. "Look, I've worked with somebody who's researched _this exact thing_ before, why do you think I have the data? Lay off."

"And how do you plan to do that," Gaster says acerbically, gesturing a spare hand sharply at you (man, that's gonna take some getting used to). "No _internet_ , remember?"

Oh. Right.

"No need to rub it in her face," Axol says mildly. "And put those hands away, you're wasting magic."

"That's a fundamentally flawed saying and you _know_ it," he says. "Oh, fine. Hand your laptop over, I'll connect you to Undernet."

You hand your laptop over. "Flash drives exist, you know," you sulk, combing through your bag to run an inventory. Yep, everything accounted for. "And not to make this about me, but I _really_ need some place to like... stay. Since I'm here permanently? Like... a social security number?"

"Don't have those," Gaster says distractedly, hands flying over your keyboard. "Axol, will you—?"

"Yes, yes," they say. "Well, human. You're a biologist? How would you like a job here?"

* * *

"Absolutely _not_ ," Gaster says, eyelight flaring purple-blue. 

"It makes sense," Axol says steadily. "You have an extra room, the human needs a room, you're the one that wanted to keep the human alive. What _else_ were you going to do with the spare bedroom?"

"I think it would make for a very nice library," he says haughtily, but it doesn't have any real heat behind it. "Fine, but there _will_ be rent." The last part is directed towards you.

"Fuck you," you say, mostly focused on studying the map of the Underground you have before you. "Not a chance."

"Worth a shot," he shrugs. "I have to go check in on the coolant systems. Axol, can you look after Sans?"

"Like I _wouldn't_ ," they say affectionately. "Now go already, you're wasting time."

A short laugh. You're vaguely aware of Gaster leaving the room. "Hey, I know I'm kind of being monitored, but if I promise real hard not to kill anybody, can I get my month's wages in advance to go out shopping? I kind of need..." you wave your hands around eloquently. "Stuff."

Axol hums, gills fluttering slightly. Why do they have gills? Fucking magic. "I'm not going to let you go off on your own yet, but if you're willing to wait ten minutes, I'll close up here and go with you. It'll help your cover story, at least."

"Oh, right," you say. "My cover story where I'm a heavily mutated monster with an almost fatal lack of magic."

"Yes, well," they say sheepishly. "Remember, the point is to limit the amount of people that realize you're human to a manageable number—" 

"And then try to befriend them once they do realize, so they don't inform the king or guard. I remember."

Like you could forget. _Don’t let people know that you’re human_ is okay enough. _Don’t let the local monarch know_ is… significantly more sketchy. Of course you remember _that_ part. Still, befriending people is solid advice. You take it.

Gaster reappears in your periphery, holding what appears to be a tiny bundle of blue fabric. "This won't take long— Axol, _what_ are you doing?"

"The human needs to go shopping," they say. "So you're going to drop us off at Waterfall before you go do your job."

"You mean the headquarters of the Royal Guard _Waterfall?"_ he says, frown carved across his features. 

"Yes," Axol says. "I need water, Gerson's at New Home more often than not—"

"Not today, he isn't," Gaster says, setting what you presume to be Sans down on the ground. Well. He kind of drops him. Like a cat. "I'll drop you off at your home and then take the human shopping at the Capital."

"Where the king lives _Capital_ ," Axol echoes. "Really?"

Sans blinks at you, and then narrows his eyes.

You narrow your eyes back.

"Yes _really_ ," Gaster says, and then shepherds them out the door. "Go on, your skin is drying up _horrendously_."

"Very funny," they say, before twisting around to wave. "Bye human, bye Sans. Don't get into any trouble!"

And then they're both gone.

After that fuss about _not leaving you unattended,_ they leave you unattended _with a child_. Sweet!

"you're human?" Sans asks.

"Yeah."

He nods. "neat."

"Thanks," you say mildly, wondering what the _fuck_ they were thinking, leaving you with a child when you're possibly a murderer.

Sans eyes your laptop curiously.

"I promise not to kill you if you touch it," you say, sounding far too much like Gaster for your liking. "No guarantees about your dad, though."

He giggles, a little thing that makes him sound like the toddler— hey, how old is he anyways? "okay."

You should probably be discouraging him. You instead point out all the fiddly bits that he can mess with that will keep the data intact, but make the compilation very, _very_ annoying.

You decide you like Sans. He's probably your favorite person down here so far, not just because he shows you where his dad's main office is. You bond through the friendship-affirming activity of absolutely _vandalizing_ Gaster's office space. 

"We're gonna prank him so hard," you say, cheerfully letting off your excess vitriol through the cathartic action of stealing all his pens and shoving them in your hiking bag. Sans helpfully replaces them with crayons. Where did he get those, anyways?

"he's gonna be _furious_ ," Sans agrees, looking just as gleeful as you are. You peg him as around three, probably. A _very_ smart three year old, but developmentally accurate. Ish. Physically. Ish. Sort of basketball height, when he curls up.

Sure, you could just ask him, but that would be a _waste_. Why interrupt your _fascinating_ conversation about souls and theoretical astrophysics? 

Biology, of course. You readily tell him about the research you've done on the surface. Bio engineering, bio tech, biosystems engineering, bionics— the works. He's far more interested by the fact that you have an aquarium— _had._ An aquarium.

"there's an aquarium in New Home," Sans tells you wisely. "axol always says that the housing costs are too high."

_Ha._ He's gonna have to try a hell of a lot harder to psych you out. "Nice try," you say, genuinely impressed. "But anthropomorphism was one of the first things I researched when I got Undernet access. People have souls, food doesn't."

He pouts for all of half a second. You scrawl _DICK_ on the huge whiteboard what spans half the office. You glance down at Sans. On second thought, you change it to _DORK_.

"you can swear, you know," he says. "dad does it all the time."

"Well in that case," you say, sending him a quick beam. You write _FUCKING_ above the _DORK_.

Another laugh. At least Sans approves.

You think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck physics.
> 
> ur not a real scientist unless u hate another field (physics), it doesn't matter which (physics), you just gotta irrationally hate something (physics). don't come for me i dont make the rules.


	3. Chapter 3

“Right,” you say, staring blankly at Gaster, back _far_ earlier than you'd expected. “Isn’t Waterfall… like… half an hour away by ferry? How did you get there and back in…” huh. You don’t actually know how long he took, but it was _hell_ of a lot shorter than an hour. Fifteen minutes, at most. The majority of which would have been spent doing whatever work on the Core he’d been talking about.

Sans snickers from the crook of your arm. You’d given in and let him bully you into carrying him. You’re starting to regret that now— how on _earth_ is he so heavy when he’s quite literally only bones?

Gaster says something that your brain refuses to register.

“Sorry, I think I went temporarily insane,” you say, blinking innocent doe eyes. “What.”

He says it again. Hhhholy… _fuck_?

“You can _what_ with time?”

He grins, taking far too much pleasure in your despair. “Sucks to be human, doesn’t it?”

“Just— just shut up for a second,” you say faintly. It’s gonna be a hell of a backbend to repress that. You can deal with this… not now. 

“You _know_ that won’t work on me,” Gaster says disapprovingly. “I _just_ told you that I can manipulate time, and you try to use a relative measure?”

“Shut _up_ ,” you whine, burying your face into the mass of baby in your arms. Why is Sans wearing a hoodie in Hotland, anyways? “That _cannot_ be a fucking—”

“Unfortunately, it is,” he says, as if he doesn't understand _why your brain is exploding_. “Why are you so surprised?”

“Because I refuse to think about it,” you say, mouth set in a line. “Just… just take me to the Capital, okay?”

“You’re no fun anymore,” he grumbles, but reaches out a hand anyways. Sans is the one to take it, and then you’re—

There’s darkness, a rush of blood in your head, and a _shift_.

You fall to your knees, disoriented, colors blurring in your vision like you’re underwater. You have to gasp for air around the pressure on your chest.

What the _fuck_ was that.

“-? lady? dad, is the human okay?”

A hand appears in the corner of your vision, and you latch on, swaying as you slowly lever yourself up.

“Are you alright?” Gaster asks quietly, hand a solid support in the rolling air.

You squint against the swirling sensation in your head. “Um, yeah. I…. where _are_ we?”

Because you know— somewhere deep in your reptile brain— that you're somewhere else now. Maybe it's the temperature, or the ambience, or the complete change in background noise. But this isn't the Core.

Sans flushes blue as Gaster looks down at him. “We’re in the Capital,” he says evenly. “More specifically, on the side of our house nearest to the market.”

Sans looks off to the side.

Gaster sighs. “Sans— you know you can’t use your magic on people without their express consent. It—”

“it’s dangerous,” Sans agrees, slightly subdued. “i’m sorry, lady. lost my magic.”

“I forgive you,” you say, glancing warily at Gaster for cues. Holy shit, he can _teleport_? Right. Do the thing. Later.

“but,” Sans persists, pushing the words out. “she _said_ to go to the capital, and i can do it faster.”

Gaster looks decidedly unimpressed. 

You stand there, awkwardly functioning as a tripod (bipod, ha _ha_ , you think you're so funny) to keep Sans at eye level with his dad. Near enough, anyways— you’re shorter by at least a head. You take a second to curse out monsters for being so tall, even though they should, by all rights, be _shorter_ than average from lack of mass and the increased gravity of being below the fucking ground. You look off to the side, determinedly staring at the nearby bookshelf. You would start whistling if you thought you could get away with it.

“Losing control is normal for your age, but your ability is dangerous… which you know. Please continue to be careful in the future,” Gaster finally says, deflating. “You did an admirable job in shifting all three of us here. Even while your emotional ties to your magic are unstable, your ability to safely move the three of us is evidence of your command over your abilities, though it is far more exertion than I would consider to be strictly _safe_. Do you feel tired? Dizzy?”

Sans shakes his head, peeking upwards. “m’fine. m’sorry. but since we’re here…” he trails leadingly.

Gaster blows out a breath, resigned. “Since we’re here,” he agrees grudgingly. “Good work, Sans.”

Sans beams.

“Nice house,” you say inanely, depositing Sans down onto the nearby couch. “I like the bookshelf. Nice bit of woodworking.”

“You’re going _shopping_ ,” Gaster reminds you sharply, stopping your slow gravitation towards the _Basic Magic Theory_ textbook you see lying open on the table. “You can handle that later.”

Right. God, how far gone are you that _Gaster_ has to remind you of your coping mechanism?

“Can I see the spare bedroom?” you say, the heavy footsore feeling of _new place_ weighing down your joints. You are going to be so jetlagged tomorrow.

“Of course,” he says, and you’re suddenly aware of how much of an intruder you are. This place is _obviously_ lived in and loved. You can feel the traces of magic throughout the whole house and you _don’t belong here_.

Later.

You follow Gaster down the hallway. "So, is fucking up time and space just a monster thing?" you say, still trying to wrap your brain around what just happened. "Or..."

"It's a..." he hesitates. You get the feeling that he's doing it more often lately than he ever wanted to. "It's a skeleton monster thing."

"Right," you say drily. "Yeah. Of course. Normal skeleton monster stuff: cute faces, typeface-themed names, and the ability to literally defy physics."

"It's... a thing," he says, face twisting up like he's chewing up something unpleasant. Doesn't apologize much, does he. "He… he’s incredibly powerful. It’s dangerous, but he has good instincts. I _am_ sorry about it- magic generally responds to emotions, and in children…"

“It gets out of control,” you realize, nodding. “And his magic is more dangerous than average?”

“... yes,” Gaster says. “It’s risky- I don’t quite know what his magic involves, and he’s too young to run any real tests. As far as I can tell, he goes through… well… a void. The void.”

You're going to do yourself the favor of ignoring that. "Sure," you say instead, rolling with the punches. "And do you? For your time fuckery?"

A tired laugh. "You could say that."

"So is that why you're his foster?" you say, unable to stop your mouth from running off. You at least manage to shut yourself up before you can say _you don't exactly seem like parenting material_ , because you have _some_ conscience left in this stupid head of yours.

"Just say it," he snorts, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat. " _No_ , I didn't want children. You're right."

He falls silent. You let it drop as he points out the rooms— office, bathroom, kitchen— until he gestures mockingly at what you assume is supposed to be your room.

There’s a bed. And a _lot_ of books. You can see boxes of what you think are discarded drafts. _Engineer indeed_. There isn’t much space left _un_ covered.

“You weren’t kidding about the library thing,” you observe, inadvertent smile briefly crossing your features. You miss your notebooks.

He leans against the doorway as you pivot slowly around the room. “Of course I wasn’t.”

“Cool,” you say, a little too tired to bother making coherent conversation. You desperately want to collapse down face first on the mattress. “Do you have anything in here you’d mind me reading?”

“Yes,” he says, and fails to elaborate.

Well. You take that as confirmation that he’ll take anything out that he doesn’t want you to see. You halfheartedly move the boxes on the bed to the ground and call it good.

“Right, let’s go to the market,” you say, turning back around, hands on your hips. You breathe in the magic of the house, letting it settle in your bones. This is going to be your new home. And you’re going to _thrive_.

“After you,” he bows, still sardonically. “ _Sans!_ We’re going to the market.”

“have fun,” you hear.

“ _With_ you,” Gaster says. “Bring the carrier.”

Sans appears on the bed you’ve just cleared, holding… _oh_. Is that—

A glowing white soul bobs towards you, and you _feel_ the inquisitiveness. You hunker down, eyes fixed on the upside down heart.

“Hello,” you say, slightly hushed. “I’m… the human, I think I should say. What’s up, Eggo?”

The soul does a tiny backflip. You feel your heart melt.

“that’s the egg,” Sans says, a little redundantly. “monsters hatch out of em. love, magic, and compassion.”

Wait.

“I thought it was love, _hope_ , and compassion,” you say blankly. 

“That’s monsters themselves,” Gaster tells you helpfully. “Eggs have different hatching requirements.”

You _should_ have expected it. But you don’t, because even though you were told that there was an egg, you still hadn’t registered that _all monsters hatched out of fucking eggs_. You have a sinking feeling that they’re not trolling you. 

“What the fuck,” you whimper, burying your face in your hands. This is going to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. That _all_ monsters laid eggs and _all_ monsters hatched through _emotions_. “What the _fuck_.”

You hear him laugh at you. Dick.

Whenever you manage to get your shit together, you’re going to study monster biology so hard. _So_ hard. You’re going to find out what makes the pseudo plantlike and animalian monsters tick, and then you’re gonna bottle that shit up and… huh. Okay, you’re probably not going to _do_ anything, but you’re going to science the _shit_ out of magic, that’s for sure.

You stand up, blindly patting the top of the egg. “I’m getting _real_ near my bullshit limit for the day, so let’s just go,” you say, tugging at the hem of your sweatshirt. “Cool? Cool.”

“If you insist,” Gaster shrugs, picking up the egg. Sans makes puppy eyes at you.

“You can walk,” you say, pretending that you don’t feel a flood of estrogen so strong that tears spring to your eyes. 

He adds a tiny lip tremble. He doesn’t even _have_ lips.

“Right,” you say, holding out your arm. He clings on with a smug look. You ignore it.

_“Soft,”_ you think you hear Gaster cough at you. 

You don’t have a reply for that, so you settle on following him out into the streets. You’re grateful for the silence, because there’s so much to _see_. 

It’s like any major European city you’ve been in— old, grandiose architecture, lots of columns and stone, just shy of overcrowded with a pleasing number of offshooting alleys to wander around in, tiny cafes, and street food vendors. There’s even non-magical birds nesting in the gables— except the people actually stop to talk to each other, with almost alarming frequency. And the fact that you can feel the ambient magic humming in the back of your head.

You’re… a little bit in love, honestly.

Sans shuffles a bit on your shoulder, aiming you sideways so you don’t crash into the streetlight you’d been headed for. He thankfully doesn’t say anything, but you can _feel_ the snicker.

“Shut up,” you say anyways. 

He tugs on your hair.

You’re so good with children.

“If you’re about done,” comes Gaster’s dry voice. The effect you think he’s aiming for is mostly negated by the egg he’s cradling in the carrier. “The marketplace is over here.”

And— oh _god_ , it’s beautiful.

The opening of the… plaza? street? Is occupied by what looks to be a permanent farmer’s market, where you overhear some of the tamest haggling you’ve ever had the displeasure of encountering. Further beyond, you see the small businesses. Bars and tailors and bookshops and ice cream parlors— 

“I thought you said that there wasn’t much industry,” you say, voice faint. 

He solemns for a moment. “There’s not. It’s all family-run, or independently started. We don’t _have_ factories— we make everything ourselves, or bastardize what we find from the Dump. Our biggest chain has _maybe_ three locations. This is all… well, frankly I’d say it’s better than the Surface, in terms of pure financial stability, no matter the lack of industrialization.”

“The real american dream,” you murmur bitterly. Of _course_ monsters pulled off free market capitalism better than humans ever could. Not like there was a high bar to surpass.

Sans is squirming, so you let him down. He makes his way to the nearby fountain and— he’s not the only child running around unsupervised. God, what you’d have _given_ to have been able to grow up like that.

“I need clothes, first,” you say, slowly. “Is there a… supermarket… ish… thing? For tourists?”

“I don’t know,” Gaster says, raising a brow. “But maybe you should try that one over there that says _Todd’s Traveler’s One Stop Shop_.”

“The what,” you say flatly, because there is nothing saying _Todd’s Traveler’s One Stop Shop_ that you can see.

He blinks. “Right. Nevermind.”

“Is this one of those magic things?” you say only a little sarcastically, staring out at the vague direction he’d been looking at. The shop, with a quaint chalkboard sign up front advertising _soaps, shoes, and snacks_ is otherwise unmarked. “You can just see location names?”

Silence.

“You’re fucking joking,” you say incredulously, turning on him. “You can— can _all monsters_ —?”

“What, and you _can’t_?” he snarks, examining his nonexistent nails. “Sad life you must live.”

_Fucker_ , he _knows_ that you can’t— “ _All_ monsters can… can see _names_?” you repeat, refusing to believe him. 

“Oh— no, just me,” he says loftily, like he forgot about your question in the first place. “What, can’t you tell?” 

Any other time you would have been able to laugh it off, because it _is_ funny, in a cosmic sorta way, and Gaster has comedic timing that meshes well with your sense of humor, but you’re at the end of your fucking compartmentalizing rope.

“I don’t fucking know!” you snap, snarl on your face and voice raised far louder than you'd like. “I don’t _fucking_ know, okay?”

A beat. The rejoinder you’re expecting doesn’t come. Instead, he says, “...Yeah.”

You…

“I— I’m just… gonna be over there,” you say shakily, shooting him a small apologetic smile. You just need time. That’s all. You ignore the almost unbearable weight of his stare boring into your back.

He lets you leave.

You weave in between the snatches of people, head down, and walk into the store. It feels… almost _criminally_ mom-and-pop, just like everything else you’ve seen so far. 

You close your eyes and just… breathe, rubbing the hem of your sweatshirt between your fingertips.

God, this is the only outfit that you have left. 

You push it aside, panning around the room. You head towards the toiletries first, picking the cheapest ones you can. You have maybe… a hundred, hundred twenty G total, which was all that Axol had been able to give you at once without raising alarm. You have a sneaking suspicion that they snuck in a few extra bits out of their own pocket and that even Gaster would probably have done the same if you weren’t hypersensitive to magic.

You’ll have to find some way to repay them, but once again— a problem for another time.

You have a spare pair of socks and leggings in your hiking bag, but you need a shirt. Short sleeved, preferably, if you’re going to be in Hotland as much as you think you are. Maybe a summer outfit in general. That sounds good.

You head towards the secondhand sales rack, and _oh_ , this is so much easier. You pick up two lightweight tees for the suspicious price of seven G each. You’re willing to spend a little more on the shorts— thirteen G each, still unreasonably cheap, from what you understand.

Your sweatshirt is good enough for the occasional jaunts into Waterfall you’ll be making, but… you could probably use some boots.

This is where you splurge, heading for the nicest, most stompy combat boots you can find. These. You want these. They remind you of home.

It’s markedly cheaper than what you’d have to pay for it on the surface, even if you have a feeling that this was a pair fished from the dump. You line your foot up next to them and sigh. Too big. You purse your lips and resign yourself to finding a pair that actually fit you.

“If you’re looking for something like those,” the shopkeeper observes from behind the counter. You’re going to go out on a limb and say that they’re Todd. “You’ll want to check out Spike’s store, down the street and to the left.”

“Thank you,” you say, blinking. “But— hm. What… would be the price range?”

The shopkeeper looks at you, a little strangely, a little sadly, eyes darting over the bargain bin goods you’re holding. “He’s the nice sort, kid. He won’t begrudge you a pair of boots.”

Oh god _damn_ it, every single time you think you’ve got your emotions under control. Why are monsters so damn _nice_ —

“I can’t accept that,” you say, furiously blinking back tears. “Um. I— no, I’ve got a cushy job lined up, I’m not—” You take a breath. “No, but thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Todd says peaceably. “But it doesn’t matter what you’re running from or how good you are at running, only that you’ve had to run. I’ve got an eye for this kind of thing, kid. New Home’s a big city and it can be a little intimidating, but we’re all here for a reason and we’re all the same old monsters in our Souls.”

Oh god. Oh god, you really do want to cry now.

You sniffle and discreetly (you hope) wipe away a tear. “Thank you,” you say, voice a little watery, but it’s okay because you’ll never have to see em again. “I... I needed that. You’re right.”

Maybe they pegged you wrong, but the advice still applies. This is the same as the big cities you’re used to, just if everybody was fucking nice and didn’t have to stress themselves out to make ends meet.

You busy yourself with rummaging through the rest of the shoes. The boots you’re holding have a bit of a heel, but it’s honestly more of a perk than a pain at this point. You’re damn tired of craning your neck to look people in the eyes. You check the price. Forty five G.

You make a snap estimate as you walk over to the counter. The total sums up to a little past a hundred, you think, leaving you with maybe ten G in spare change. 

That seems okay enough to you, so you start methodically dumping gold out onto the counter, sliding them out in groups of three as you jump the skips in your head. 

“That’ll be eighty gold,” Todd says, almost bored. 

You pause. You’re not the best at calculations, but you know that you’re not _that_ off, no matter how quickly you did the mental math.

“Thank you,” you whisper, almost unable to get the words past your choked up throat. You're not going to do him the disservice of arguing with him. You slide over the last two bits of gold to make the pile an even eighty.

“No need,” they say, shrugging. “A little goes a long way in gaining loyal customers. You look like you’re going to be sticking around for a while. It’s really all part of my master plan, you’ll see.”

“I’m sure I will,” you promise, lip wobbling dangerously. You feel almost deliriously happy as you clutch your absurdly high heeled boots to your chest. “ _Thank you._ ”

Todd waves you off with a shooing motion, reminding you very much of a gruff and fussy mother hen.

You leave, lips quirked in a tiny smile.

* * *

You find Gaster idly watching Sans roll around the fountain with a gaggle of other kids, absently rocking the egg, just a little. He probably doesn't even realize it.

You approach, because he definitely knows you're watching already. "Hey Wingles the Pringles," you say teasingly, coming to a stop a little beside him. A peace offering, or as near as you can come.

"No," he says, almost instantly. And like that, you're forgiven.

"Dingaling," you prod. "Dongles, the Donkey Kong mongols. The Donkey Kong jongles. The Donkey Kong —"

A hand clamps around your mouth, cutting you off. Or. It tries to. It's fairly ineffective, due to the _fucking hole in the middle_.

You raise an eyebrow at him.

He coughs, and the hand disappears. "I won't do it again if you don't."

"What?" you say innocently, delighting in this small payback. "Compare you to Donkey Kong's dick with increasingly ridiculous euphemisms, like _Spongles_?"

" _Yes_ , that," he snaps, glaring at you. "Shut _up_."

"Scout's honor," you say, unable to stop the giggle that bubbles up.

A second, and then he's huffing out a wheeze of laughter too. "Your humor is so _juvenile_ ," he groans, tilting his head back. "So _fucking—"_

"And you laughed!" you point out cheerily. "Which says more about your _terrible_ taste than it does about me."

"That makes it _worse_ ," he says, but he's obviously fighting back a smile and you are too and you think—

You're gonna be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i barely know anything abt undertale but what ive heard makes me so FRUSTRATED. like ksjghksjrg did nobody consider,,, like,,,, questioning what asgore was on. i feel like it isn't too much of a mental leap to go from  
> we lost the war once  
> >we're apparently going to war again once we go to the surface(???)  
> >even tho we already lost the first time  
> >obviously asgore is not an idiot and he knows what happened (hopefully at least) so SOMETHINGS up with the plan here  
> >the most obvious conclusion is that asgore does not in fact want to go to war with all of humanity  
> >which means that the whole war thing is just his way of giving hope  
> >which means the war is never actually going to happen???  
> like ??????? the amount of mental gymnastics required in order to stay sane. respect.  
> so like correct me if im wrong but this is so FRUSTRATING. please tell me im wrong, actually, i dont think i could bear it if every single monster just,,,, went along with that.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s quiet.

Not unbearably so— New Home is a big city, and it has the requisite _big city nightlife_ noises. It still sets you on edge a bit.

It’s just… _quiet_. It’s the lack of cars, you think. In _any_ city, there’s always cars and firetrucks rushing around at night, wind and people and heavy club music.

You lay there on your bare guest bed, surrounded by boxes and books, and just... breathe.

New Home’s sounds are less _city_ and more suburbs. Maybe that’s it. No screeching wildlife, no drunken shouting...

Of all the things you miss, you think that maybe this is the dumbest.

You’d been so _tired_ earlier, had disappeared into your new room almost as soon as you’d gotten back— to Gaster’s relief, you think.

And now you… _can_ sleep, probably. You’re in that languid, smooth state of underwater clarity where you could go either way. And you probably _should_ sleep, because you’re going to be a guinea pig tomorrow and you have a feeling that it’s going to be exhausting.

But _magic_.

You... you don’t actually know how you feel. You’d been scared, then guiltily excited, then sad, and now… you feel normal, honestly. Maybe you’re in shock.

Yeah. You’re in shock. That’s probably it. You’ll be sad later, you convince yourself. Which suits you just fine, because you need to _figure out what the fuck is going on with magic_.

Now that you think of it, that’s been the cornerstone of most of your worries so far. Because _magic shouldn’t exist_. You decide not to analyze what that says about you.

Path decided for the night, you sit up. Thank god you have Undernet access. Thank _god_ you’re in the house of a rich bastard that has genuine books. You’d never thought you’d have to face a time where books are a _rarity_.

So. What first?

You don’t think the papers around you are going to be much help. You take a quick peek anyways. Scientific papers, blueprints, loose sheets of (coded?) notes— yeah, you’re not going to get much out of these until you learn the basics.

You start off with a search for materials on magic aimed at children. That’s the easy part— you click on the first flyer you see (having an entirely social media based search engine is _weird._ ) and get the main idea.

Magic is based on emotions, monsters are based on magic, et cetera, et cetera. _How_ , though? You try all the keywords you can think of— you even stalk the account of the college in Hotland to see if _anything_ past middle school level is posted. 

Well, if there is, you’re not going to be able to find it any time soon.

You blow out a frustrated breath. The most instructive things you’ve seen so far have mostly come from little fun fact blurbs and posted pictures of classwork. 

Another thing to the list: you miss Wikipedia. 

Or maybe the lack of information on magic is just… normal, with how _integrated_ it is. It’s as good as instinctual to monsters, from what you’ve seen. On one hand you’re jealous. On the other, you _really fucking want Wikipedia right about now_.

So. That’s a dead end. You start on the history of the Underground, without much hope, but you’re practically blown away by how _much_ information there is.

Is this what happens when there’s no selective pressure for STEM fields? You’re not sure you like it.

You begin shoveling their history down your throat. It’s… well. There’s certainly a bias against humans, not that you can really hold it against them. You’d be pissed too. It corroborates with what Axol and Gaster had told you: there was a war, there were seven mages who made the barrier, there’s been three humans before you—

Wait.

Three?

You switch to your laptop, pulling up a saved news clipping and… you’re… you’re pretty sure that only _two_ people have gone missing on Ebott. Three, now that you’re down here.

Yep. Two others before you, kids. You cross reference the fuzzy pictures and descriptions. You match two of the kids (thank god that you’re not the one that will have to tell the families), but the third…

You… you can’t find _anything_ , not on your laptop and only barely on Undernet. They’re _there_ , you know that, but they’re not… _talked_ about. Not really. It feels like… a secret, not a bad one, just… like _any_ open secret kept among a huge group of people.

Looks like monsters aren’t that different after all.

It doesn’t really interest you, though, so you bookmark it for later.

What does interest you is the talk of _Boss Monsters_. You take a second to breathe, because now you have to face it.

_Life is a motherfucking game._

Or you could go upstairs, take that textbook on magic you’d seen, and completely ignore the issue.

You gently shut your laptop and phone, tucking them under your arm as you make your way out of your room. You stay quiet, padding softly across the hardwood. You’re not actually sure how monster circadian cycles work, but since you’d eaten lunch and skipped dinner at the times you’re used to, you’re going to assume that they follow a fairly anglocentric schedule, which implies a twenty four hour day-night cycle.

You’re starting to feel a little hungry, actually, so you decide to make a stop at the kitchen to raid the fridge.

Ha _ha_ , you’re fucking lucky that monsters don’t speak some unrecognizable vernacular— as isolated as they are, they still know what fridges are. They literally have their own internet. You’ve heard worse accents from Maine.

You manage to shock yourself out of your musing by decidedly _not_ jumping when you see the light on in the kitchen when you round the corner.

“Scare easily, don’t you,” comes the quiet taunt.

“Shut up,” you respond eloquently. You cough. “Why are you up, anyways?”

He’s not the one that fell into a fucking physics defying world. No, he was born in it. Lucky son of a bitch.

“...shut up,” he says. You drop it, instead deciding to rummage through the kitchen cabinets. You’re craving tea. You feel justified in ransacking his stores, considering that he’d _tied you up_.

“To your right, upper shelf,” he says absently, head still bent over some tedious looking paperwork. “Honey’s in the top shelf of the pantry, milk’s in the fridge, and sugar’s… somewhere. Over there. I think.”

You pause. “How the hell did you know I wanted tea? _I_ barely knew I wanted tea.”

“Ha, I was _right_?” he grins, finally looking up. “You do seem like the kind of person.”

“You mean you guessed,” you say flatly, but still grudgingly impressed. The tea is where he said it was, _just_ high enough above your head to be uncomfortable. Of all the things you hate about him, this is the _worst_. Tall people have no rights.

You lever yourself on the counter in order to reach the tea canisters, because of course they’re canisters. Sure, you could’ve just jumped, but you’re not quite prepared to give him more teasing fodder at the moment.

You take a moment to just… look at them. You hadn’t expected… well, you _know_ space is short down here, and that they probably don’t just have tea trees lying around, but you still have to take a second to buffer.

Well, are you in the mood for the unlabeled medley of golden flowers and crumbly leaves, the other unlabeled tin of what looks like shiny pink longjin, or the _other_ unlabeled tin of what smells like earl grey, but with bright blue-purple berries? 

You kinda wanna try them all, but... you don’t actually know if they’re poisonous or not? And— no offense to monsters in general— you really don’t trust them to have done thorough testing on humans, for some odd reason. There’s a difference between magic infused human food, and straight up magical food, after all.

You set the canisters back on the shelf and— oh! Your messing around with the cabinet knocked a small box free from the very back— so far back that you’d hardly been able to see it. You tug it out and... _ha_.

Gaster’s been holding out on you.

In your hands is the cheapest, shittiest box of complimentary tea bags you’ve ever seen, the kind that lasts forever and gets thrown out by the pallettefull. _Loose leaf tea_ your ass.

You clamber back down, clutching your treasure. You have no idea how he notices your silent glee, but he _whirls_ on you.

He groans, sinking back down into his chair. “I don’t suppose it’s too late to render you temporarily amnesiac?”

“Yep. Feel like indulging?” you beam, trying your best to fill the unfamiliar kettle with the unfamiliar sink in complete silence. You manage better than you expected.

He doesn’t answer, which you take as a yes.

A comfortable silence falls. You cut up a lemon and fetch the jars of honey and sugar (through climbing, _again_ ) before appropriating _Basic Magic Theory._ You scan the table of contents, and so far so _absolutely no mention of how video games factor into this_. You settle in on the first chapter. 

Aw, fuck, this is a _physics_ textbook.

So maybe it’s magic physics, yes, and you should have expected it, yes, but _still_. You flip open your laptop to take notes— you’re gonna need em. 

You pour the water out a bit before it boils, because you still have standards. You hand him a mug and set to stirring in ludicrous amounts of honey and sugar in yours, with just a squeeze of lemon to top it off.

“You are a _disgrace_ ,” he says, utterly disgusted. “That's just fucking lukewarm water with enough sweetener to turn it into a non-homogenized syrup in a miserable lukewarm coffee mug. You’re making fucking _lemonade.”_

He’s not _wrong_.

“I mean,” you say, after a beat. “It tastes good.”

A snort.

“Oh, come _on_. Shitty convenience store Darjeeling? It’s practically a public service,” you cajole, settling back down. The tease of how he _likes_ the shit tea is on the tip of your tongue before you think better. He’d hidden it in the very back for a reason, after all. You’ve had your share of guilty pleasures, you’re not going to make fun of his. You don’t exactly have a leg to stand on, do you?

* * *

“So,” you say, breaking the easy silence for the first time in… you glance at the clock. Huh. About two hours. You nod at his mess of papers. “What’re you working on?”

He blinks, looking almost… startled. Like he managed to forget that you were here. He checks his mug (long empty) and sighs, setting his pen down and resting his face on his hand. “An… assignment from Asgore, I guess you could say,” he says. He waves a hand, and the kettle floats over, glowing in the dim light. “Rather ill advised, to be honest. I tried to tell him, but he… doesn’t quite get the concept of specialization.”

“Mhm, that sucks,” you say, glaring viciously at the levitating kettle. It pours out a perfect amount of water in his mug before settling back down primly on the table top. “What oh-so-important assignment are you not specialized for?”

“Civic engineering,” he says, staring moodily at his appetizing cup of cold water and wet tea bag. “Agricultural systems too, I guess you could say. Not _exactly_ what I’m good at.”

That checks. “So why did he give it to you? Can’t you just… delegate? There’s gotta be _someone_ with civic engineering experience, I can see the electricity and water pipes.”

A tired smile. “The electricity would be me. I _do_ have the experience— just not with _food_.”

“Sorry, what?” you say, refusing to give him the satisfaction of letting him see your surprise. “You… what, set up the power grids? Reverse engineered light bulbs, Edison style? Invented electricity?”

“Might as well have,” he says. “Who do you think made the Core?”

You brain shorts out.

“ _Alone_ ?” you ask, because people don’t make that sort of thing on their _own_. And as dickish as Gaster is, you get the feeling that this isn’t the kind of thing he lies about.

He gives you a smug grin.

“Well,” he adds thoughtfully. “I _did_ have Guy and Axol. Mostly to double check my calculations and help with the finicky bits of construction.”

That… still sounds fucking _impossible_ to you. _Three people_? “How long did it _take_?” you say, stupefied. “And who’s Guy?”

“The intern,” Gaster explains, with the type of tone reserved the world over for talking about interns. “And it’s been… three? Maybe four? years of construction. I presented the plans to Asgore when I was eighteen, but it took another year or so to start making any real progress.”

It hits you, then, that Gaster is _young_. He’s… the same age you are, actually, give or take a couple years. And he has _children_.

God, poor bastard. Responsible for an entire kingdom’s power _and_ two kids. 

“Holy shit,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “That’s… _damn_.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he preens, sipping at his cold tea flavored water.

“Better enjoy it, because I’m never complimenting you again,” you say, waving your empty cup at his face in a silent demand to _do the magic thing_.

He sighs, but floats the kettle over again anyways.

You watch as the kettle tips over, once again without spilling a drop.

“So. Time. The void,” you say, staring at him. You cross your arms on the table. 

“It’s really not part of the typical curriculum,” he says, nodding slightly towards the open textbook. Evasive. Maybe the only thing so far he’s been evasive _about_.

“And it’s really not part of what I consider to comply with standard physics. Or even most quantum physics,” you say, mouth set in a slash.

“It’s not the only thing that doesn’t comply,” he says, almost petulant. “Even without magic.”

“But this is a hell of a violation,” you say, just short of hysteria, because you _are_. Hysteric, that is. You’re not a physics buff, but this is stretching it, because he’s not wormholing— if he was, he’d have said so. He’s genuinely… what, able to move independently of time? Able to travel faster than light? “So tell me what I’m missing.”

He doesn’t try to pretend that this is anything more than an interrogation. Doesn’t ask a question back, doesn’t try to make it an even conversation. You’re grateful.

“Are you familiar with tachyonic antitelephones?”

“Is that how it works?”

“No.”

Your lips tilt up against your will. You bite your cheek and glare at him. “Don’t try and make me laugh.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“And don’t make me be a psychologist,” you say. “Diversion gains you nothing, you’re the one with all the power here. Either tell me no or spit it out.”

“Maybe I just need time,” he says, making a show of drinking his tea-water. “Isn’t that the entire point of diversion tactics?”

You blink. “Did… did you just make a joke? A _bad_ joke? About _time_?”

He blinks too. Surprised at himself. Probably dropped his guard on accident, at this hour of night. He’ll plead fatigue. “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

“Holy shit,” you say, trying in vain to suppress your giggles. “Holy _shit_ , you’re a _dork_. You’re a disaster dork college student, how did I not notice before.”

He glares at you, but it lacks venom. 

You smile sweetly back. 

“The barrier,” he says abruptly, obviously done with you laughing at him. “It stops us from getting out, but it lets humans in. How?”

You consider, brow furrowing slightly. “It’s... not a one way barrier,” you say slowly. “Because that would require expansion, and the size of the Underground has remained constant and the Surface hasn’t been eaten yet. So _something_ needs to leave. Passively?”

He nods.

“The barrier can be broken with souls. Human souls. _Seven,_ exactly, but with no further criteria,” you say thoughtfully. “So… the barrier can recognize souls, somehow? Some sort of fundamental difference between monster souls and human souls, one that exists no matter the diversity—”

“Don’t get hung up on that part,” he says, dismissive. “Remember how magic is intention based? Just accept it.”

You blow out a breath. “Right. Okay, so the barrier can… recognize souls, full stop, no exploitable mechanism. In that case, the easiest thing to do would be to just prevent souls on the inside from crossing, but allow everything else free travel.”

“Close,” he nods. “But remember— souls aren’t the _only_ magic. Just a certain type. We’re also prevented from communicating with the outside world.”

“But how the fuck could the mages have predicted _internet_ ,” you protest, before the answer comes to you. “It’s a side effect? Lucky bastards.”

“Exactly,” he says, tipping his mug idly from side to side, watching it with the kind of disinterested fascination that you decidedly do not feel. “The barrier recognizes three things, as far as we’re aware. Human souls, monster souls, and magical signature that’s geared towards communication. Everything else is an unfortunate byproduct. The barrier itself provides magical interference, and the Void swallows anything that could possibly escape.”

“Right, that,” you say, pointing. “That right there. What in the _fucking_ hell is the Void.”

“A void,” he deadpans.

A beat.

“That’s not even _funny_ !” you object over his uncaring snickers. “Oh my god, your sense of humor is _worse_ than mine.”

“That’s completely relative,” he says, straight faced. “An odd symmetry, don’t you think?”

You…

Relative? Symmetry?

Like matter and antimatter, right? Like positrons and electrons. Compliance with the intuitive assumption of universally neutral conserved charges: that every particle has a corresponding antiparticle... or _symmetry_ under _relativistic_ quantum mechanics.

“Were those puns?” you say, somehow managing to keep your screech at a whisper. You deserve an award for that. “The void is— what, the antiparticle for magic? You _absolute_ asshole, you know I’m not a physicist, what would you have done if I _hadn’t_ known what c-symmetry was?”

“Then I’d be concerned,” he says loftily. “I’m not a biologist, but at least I know what cells are.”

“And I know what atoms are,” you counter. “ _You_ don’t know what, like... epigenetics is, do you?”

“...Fair,” he admits after a moment. “Well, there you have it. You should be able to extrapolate from here.”

Evasive, again. Not even trying to hide it.

“Except _I’m not a physicist_ ,” you stress, shutting your laptop so you can stare at him. “You can’t tell me that— that you somehow go through a place that contains the antiparticle for magic while _using_ magic. How does that _work_?”

He falls silent. He looks… almost annoyed. Not at you, though, you get that at least. At... monsters?

“Look,” he says eventually. “I… get it, okay? The… _confusion_. Just— get it through your head that magic is emotion based. And _no_ , we don’t know how. Just… emotions affect and effect magic.”

Oh. _That’s_ why. He doesn’t know. And he thought you were making fun of him.

You… aren’t so much of an insensitive dick that you’ll make fun of a scientist for _that_.

“Humans don’t have magic and we sure as hell have emotions,” you say instead. “I mean, besides mages, which… honestly, I don’t even think they exist anymore? In any measurable capacity, at least.”

“Of course you have magic,” Gaster says. “You have a soul, don’t you? Souls _are_ magic, dumbass. It’s just not in an… active form, I guess you could say. Not like... attack magic or environmental magic.”

“There’s different types?” you say, which is… honestly? Ridiculously obvious in hindsight. It clears up a hell of a lot of your confusion, now that you think about it. “Why does nobody _talk_ about it, then? Why aren’t there, like, fucking _names_ for them instead of a general catch-all?”

“I don’t know if you’ve _seen_ a monster before, but— _ha_ — we’re not exactly fond of labels,” he says, mostly joking, but with enough bitterness that you get the impression that he’s absolutely _furious_ about it.

“Okay, so how do you guys learn about magic if the only word you have to describe everything _is_ magic?”

He sighs, tracing the cracks on his face. “Monsters… we— we’re made of magic, right? And so our ability to communicate _comes_ from magic. We don't _exactly_ have the organs required for it. So when we talk, we can just add a… magical tag, I guess you could say, for what we want to specify. Like a difference in inflection, only in magical signature. The rest is… _mostly_ dependent on context, honestly. Even the tags are mostly only used in academic conversation.”

Your brain feels a little broken.

Comparatively, it’s such a _small_ thing, what with the barrier, the occasional murderous human, the imminent overpopulation… well, monsters could be forgiven for not exactly making precise nomenclature a _priority_.

But…

“Sorry, are you implying that magic somehow… actively encourages communication?” you say, fixating on the easiest part of a whole clusterfuck of problems. “Your ‘ _ability to communicate comes from magic’_ ? So magic has some sort of _free w—_ ”

“ _Stop_ ,” he snaps, hand on his face suddenly curled into a fist on the table. “Just _stop_ , okay?”

He’s not angry.

He’s… scared?

And. You are too.

Because the picture he’s painting, the picture of _magic_ and an elementary force based on _intention_ is…

You remember the involuntary reverence with which he talked about the void. The Void. You could hear the capitals.

(how _serious_ does something need to be that— that the _royal scientist,_ ~~powerful, you’d felt the magic he tosses around like candy,~~ is scared of _talking_ about it?)

You remember how you’d fallen down. You remember your almost unbelievably terrible luck with any sort of equipment that could've been used to contact any form of aid. You’d heard the screams of something in the world tearing. You hadn’t _decided_ to suddenly let go, you hadn’t somehow managed to contort yourself to fall down a meter wide crack. You hadn’t decided to go pick up your hiking bag, carefully unplug your laptop, and cannonball down the hole in the second or so before you’d blacked out.

And you still don’t know how video games factor into this.

But it’s… _awfully_ convenient, isn’t it? ~~Narratively appropriate, maybe?~~

So you’re scared. And you should be.

“Right,” you say. “Right. Sorry.”

You feel small.

“You have work tomorrow,” he says eventually. “We both do.”

“Yeah,” you say, quirking a small smile his way. “Hypocrite.”

“Idiot.”

Weak. Almost no bite at all. But you're a little too shaky to comment on it. You foist your empty mug on him, gather your things, and go to sleep.

You have work tomorrow, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh this wasn't supposed to be angsty???????  
> i mean it lmao, this started as self indulgent fluff. its back to regularly scheduled programming after this. please dont expect more angst im bad at angst.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im a little iffy on this chapter tbh but like,,,, its just been sitting on a doc for like the past two months so im just gonna bite the bullet and put it out there

“Good morning, fuckwad,” you say cheerily as you step into the kitchen. “How’re you doing?”

You’re not _exactly_ a die-hard cheer-everyone-else-up morning person, but you _are_ a die-hard annoy-everyone-else-to-the-point-of-homicide person, and getting stuck in a place where homicide isn’t an accurate word isn’t going to change that! 

Gaster glares at you wordlessly from where his head is thumped against the table.

You nod wisely. “Well, you got any plans for breakfast?”

He glares at you harder.

“I _see_ ,” you nod again, taking probably a little too much delight in tormenting him. “In that case, I’ll take upon myself the task of burning down your kitchen.” You _are_ crashing, after all. You’re gonna do your fair share of work.

His glare of absolute acrimony mostly ends up looking pathetically grateful.

You take pity on him and start a cup of coffee. It’s as you’re locating the coffee grounds (you’d seen em in your quest for tea this morning yesterday, where _are_ they?) that you notice that even though he’s slumped over the table, he’s cradling the egg.

Ha. And he calls _you_ a soft touch.

He grumbles out something unintelligible as you set a mug of coffee in front of him before he chugs the entire thing in one go.

You blink. “...do you have thermoreceptors? Like, at all?”

“Fuck you,” he rasps, hand pressed against his face.

A stray pang of unwanted concern hits you. “Hey, dude,” you say, suppressing a laugh as you gingerly touch his shoulder. “You good?”

“No,” he says, but it’s mostly grouchy, so he’s fine. 

“Good,” you say unsympathetically. You open the fridge and briefly scan the contents. It… honestly looks a little like a dorm room fridge? Bare, except for one or two well stocked shelves of terribly healthy food and a stash of cheap, packaged junk in the corner.

_Exactly what the fridge of a twenty-something-year-old fresh out of school with an unwanted kid would look like_ , your mind whispers, but you ignore it. 

Milk, eggs, mayo, a soldering mat(???), orange juice… yeah, no. You close the fridge.

You look at the nearby box of cereal and back at Gaster, still collapsed on the table. You have a terrible feeling that you know exactly what their typical routine entails— pour out a bowl of cereal, sit in silence while trying to wake up, and then on to the Core. All of a sudden, cereal seems... almost unbearably _miserable_.

You glance at the clock. Plenty of time, really.

“How do pancakes sound?”

“They don’t. They’re nowhere near elastic enough,” he says, voice full of humor, but still low and scratchy. Monsters don’t get sick like that, you remember, not with the amount of matter they have. So he probably just sounds like that in the mornings. You decide not to think about it.

“You’re so full of bullshit,” you frown, trying to locate a skillet without a wobbly handle. “I'll throw a pancake at your _face_ , you'll hear how much sound it makes then.”

“See? You _do_ know physics. Practically a miracle,” he says comfortably, looking a little more awake. He pushes himself out of the chair with a grimace, egg in the crook of his arm. 

“Very funny,” you say drily, but honestly? You can’t argue.

“I have to go wake Sans up,” he announces blankly, either talking to the opposite wall or psyching himself up for the ordeal. You’re going to go with the latter. 

“A _monumental_ undertaking. Your sacrifice will be remembered,” you say mildly. You level out a cup of flour with the nearby metal spatula and dump it in a spare bowl. Sugar, baking powder, salt. Whisk— wait, you can’t find a whisk. Spatula, then. You’ll make do.

He makes a face at you and walks out, presumably to go wake up Sans.

You don’t envy him the task.

You swiftly crack an egg on the counter with your left hand, poking gingerly at the dry ingredients with your right. You measure out the milk and oil. With a clever bit of finangling, you manage to emulsify them with the spatula. 

Add dry ingredients to wet, mix together (again with the spatula, you deserve an award for this), heat up the skillet.

Gaster wanders back in, conspicuously Sans-less. He idly taps a pattern along the eggshell.

You’re forcibly reminded of the egg you’ve cracked with such ruthless efficiency.

Hmm. Okay, no eggs anymore for a while.

You hand him a plate of fluffy, picture-perfect circles. Well. They would be picture perfect if you hadn’t half-assed the stacking. But your piss poor plating skills hardly matter in the face of your absolute _mastery_ of pancakes, the mastery that’d had veritable legions thronging into your room whenever you’d woken up early enough to bother procuring a griddle.

Is this your coping mechanism? Oh god, you’ll never be able to look at yourself ever again if cooking _pancakes_ is your coping mechanism.

Gaster’s face when he sees them is downright reverential. Or as close as you think he gets. “Holy shit,” he says, completely heartfelt, “ _Thank_ _you_.”

A pause. You unsuccessfully try not to scrunch up your nose.

“No?”

“Definitely not,” you agree fervently. “Can we stick to like… _not_. That. Ever again.”

“Oh, thank the stars,” he sighs, stuffing a pancake into his mouth. “We’re going to get along _wonderfully_.”

You… you think so too!

* * *

You look over the approximately four monsters that constitute Gaster's team and resist the urge to sigh. Look, you’re used to small research groups, but this is _ridiculous—_ you’ve played games of jenga with more people than this _._ Except this isn’t just a research team, it’s the whole ass Royal Science department, in all its multidisciplinary glory.

“Axol, Guy, Dots, Addie, this is the human. Any questions? No? Great, meeting over, get back to work.”

You’re left with exactly as much knowledge of their identities as you had before. Which is to say, abso-fucking-lutely zilch. You’re guessing Axol-Guy-Dots-Addie is the same.

“I’ve got a question,” the bird(???) says with an expression you can only describe as _fuckboy at a frat party_.

Gaster levels them with a death glare.

They remain unfazed, instead turning a thoroughly sleazy grin on you. “Sorry Gaster, forgot my question. In the meantime— hey human, you got a name?”

Well, there really is only one response to a question like that.

“You can call me whatever you _like_ , gorgeous,” you croon back, flashing them an entirely over the top wink. 

“Oh yeah?” they say, giving you a slow once over. “I might just take you up on that. How about we get to know each other over coffee sometime, huh? Show you the _real_ Underground?”

It's not serious, you know that— you're both flirting in good fun. But you... think that they could be a friend.

“I’d like that,” you say beaming slightly, and you’re telling the truth.

“I’d like to meet you too!” the clam (?? _????_ ) pipes up. “Gaster’s no fun— let’s all take the night off, get a little team bonding in.”

“You met her yesterday,” Gaster scowls, but you get the impression that he’s not serious about it. “Now can we _please_ —”

“You and Axol met her yesterday,” Guy corrects (this one you know, you can spot an intern a mile away). “The rest of us watched her in her sleep after tying her up. That’s the impression you want us to leave her with?”

“I mean,” the bird says. 

“Dots,” Guy says, mortified, hands over his eyes. “Dots, man, just shut _up_.”

Dots! Okay, so by your impeccable logic, that means…

“I’m Addie,” the clam offers, and you get the impression that they're absolutely delighted. “Drop by sometime, we can have noodles."

_Yes_ , Sans mouths at you, so you grin. "It's a date."

* * *

You watch Dots mess around with something that looks like a particularly shiny IV stand. 

“You— pfft— you want a hand there?” you ask, swinging your legs from where you’re sitting on the exam table.

He looks back over, winks, and then does a flip.

You raise an eyebrow. “I mean… that’s... impressive?”

“No, no,” he says, grinning. “I’m a bird. And I just _flipped_ —”

“Oh my god,” you say, and crack up. “Okay, okay, you win, what the hell. I can’t compete with that.”

“Don’t feel too bad about yourself,” he preens. “I just have way too many responses for hand jokes. You’re good, but after a couple years of working with _Gaster_ …”

“Oh,” you say. “Okay, yeah. But for real though, you need a set of opposable thumbs? Can’t be easy with wings.”

He shakes his head. “No, but thank you. This is pretty delicate, and direct contact with a human will mess it up, no offense.”

“None taken,” you shrug. “Can I ask why?”

He shrugs, feathers on his head raising and smoothing back down. “Nothing much to it, really. Humans have all their magic concentrated in their Souls, common consensus is that it’ll just throw off anything magic sensitive, and I’ve spent too much time on this to want to test that theory on it right now.”

“Huh,” you say, absorbing the information. “I do?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Most monsters will tell you that humans have more magic than monsters, but that’s not really the case. Humans on average generally produce _less_ magic, but it’s all just so concentrated in one type that it feels like a lot. Fun fact of the day!”

You hum, nodding.

“Monsters,” he continues, and then pauses to poke his head into a particularly glowy area. “Monsters have less magic in our Souls because we’re made of magic. Most of it goes into forming our bodies and carrying out our daily functions. You humans have cells and organs for all that, so you can afford to keep it all in your Souls, but we really don’t.”

“About that,” you say, snapping. “I know you guys have some living material— but is it like… exactly what your non magical counterparts are? What does magic replace? How did it evolve to do that in the first place?”

“Well,” he says. “We can’t actually answer most of that since we can’t carry out autopsies and there aren’t exactly _fossils_ we can study.”

“Oops,” you say insincerely. You then immediately feel like trash for being so callous about dusting. 

“And— magic mostly replaces connective tissue,” he says, after raising a brow ridge at you. “For example, I know that Sans has human-type lactase and a few mitochondria, but no blood or even ligaments. It’s all magic— ghosts and skeleton monsters and elementals all have abnormally high levels of magic, actually— comparable to that of a Boss Monster’s. An adaptation to deal with the sheer amount that’s required to carry out basic functions of survival. They somehow managed to cross the threshold that limits a typical matter-based monster’s, and now their magic levels are exponentially higher than what they can actually use.”

“Okay,” you squint. “Okay, I’m going to just accept that.”

“Welcome to my life,” he says, sketching a bow. “I’m one of the only monster biochemists, and I’m stuck here just finding new ways of manipulating magic.” He flaps a wing at the machine. “Did you know that for the past two years I’ve just been coming up with pill-forms of healing magic? I’m a glorified pharmacist who has no real way of seeing what I’m working with. Dealing with Vulkin healthcare? A _nightmare_ , let me tell you.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say, righteously angry and sympathetic on his behalf. You can’t imagine _that_ , being a biochemist that couldn’t see more of their own body than a couple bits of dust. “Wanna take a look at my cells?”

“I can think of a lot I wanna look at,” he shoots at you, before the words appear to register. “Oh my _stars_ , really?”

“Go for it, man,” you say, holding out your hands. “I’d rather give up a couple cells than undergo whatever Gaster’s cooking up. Anything that keeps me here longer.”

He ruffles his wings excitedly. “Oh _stars_ , everybody back at Scool’s gonna be so jealous,” he says, almost hopping a little. “Okay, what body parts are you not too attached to?”

* * *

“Hey, Axol,” you say casually. “You, uh. You know what Gaster’s been doing? It’s been awfully… uh. _Awfully_ quiet these past few minutes.”

“He’s just about finished,” they say. “But you may want to have a look before you commit fully.”

Your interest is piqued. You follow them down the labyrinthine path that opens to an even darker hallway. They pause a little bit outside, and then gesture down the hallway like they expect you to walk down there.“You’re on your own from here!”

You pale, laughing a little from disbelieving nervousness. “What?”

“His construction process is….” they say, hesitating. They hastily speak again when they see your face. “Oh, no, that’s the _least_ worrying part— for you, at any rate.”

“Axol?” you say. “Axol, you’re _really_ not helping here.”

“It’s nothing like what you’re thinking!” they say, and then— “well, maybe a little what you’re thinking. But I’m just not going in there because his magic is _really_ pressurized whenever he’s not consciously keeping it in check, more than any of us can really take— you’ve felt it, haven’t you?”

“Right, yeah,” you say. “Yeah, I thought that was just me. You too?” 

“Yes,” they say. “But you’ll probably be able to handle it better than any monster could. Human Souls are very concentrated repositories of magic—”

“Oh,” you say, understanding dawning. “Yeah, Dots told me a little about that. Gaster has so much magic that it actually exerts force on other magic?”

You’re a little incredulous that his— what, his _stray_ magic is somehow stronger than a monster’s entire body? But then you concentrate a little, and feel the hints of his magic coming from the hallway, almost as strong as Axol’s signature when they’re standing right in front of you. Somehow, the idea doesn’t seem so far fetched anymore.

“Essentially,” they say. “But you should be fine. Your Soul is effectively condensed enough that you’ll be able to move freely.”

Like a soda can! Pressurized on the inside, enough to bear a disproportionate amount of force and hold its own. 

But if your soul gets drained, like how Gaster’s planning, it follows that, much like an empty soda can….

“Oh _hell_ no,” you say, backing away. “What the hell, is he the only one that can operate the thing?”

You see the apology in their eyes. “My advice is to run,” they say.

You take it.

* * *

You hold your breath as footsteps tap down the passageway. Fuck, how did you not notice— 

“Oh, the human!” Addie peers at you and— wait, are those even her eyes? You stare back and catch the ring of what look like tiny dots around her lower shell, like a scallop.

Something clicks in your brain. 

“Oh my god.”

She settles down across from you, ducking uncomfortably under the desk you’re hiding behind. “I see you’re adjusting well.”

“Oh my _god_.”

She makes a sound that you think is a laugh. “We like our little jokes around here. It makes life more bearable, don’t you think?”

“You’re named after an _adductor muscle_?”

The jaws of her shell snap open and shut. “Yup!”

You make a noise very much like a deflating balloon. “Oh my _goddddd_. That’s hilarious. That’s _hilarious_ , oh my god, I’m so angry.”

She laughs at you again, and then says gently, “This all must be strange, yeah?”

You shut up, forcibly keeping yourself from tensing. “...yeah,” you admit. “Just— it’s been a lot to take in.”

“I can imagine,” she says. “...By the way, uh... what are you, uh. What are you doing under here anyways?”

_“Where the fuck is the human?_ ” comes the furious echo, reverberating down the metal walls of the room you’re hiding in. _“Dots, what the_ fuck _are you doing?”_

“Yeah, okay,” she says, looking as though regrets her existence. “Forget I asked.”

* * *

Sans blips into existence right in front of you.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” you warn.

He grins.

The message is clear. _Make it worth my time_.

“It’ll be funnier if he finds me back at home, won’t it?” you say persuasively. “It’ll be cut so short if you tell him that I’m here. Where’s the fun in that?”

He gives you an unimpressed look that looks unnervingly like Gaster’s.

You look at his unconvinced face and nod. “Okay then,” you say. “And what about his office?”

Somehow, Sans manages to blanch.

“Think about it, he hasn’t even gone into his office yet. He has no idea what happened. You don’t wanna be here when he finds out, do you?”

He considers this for a good few seconds before countering. “at the extractor.”

Fuck. It _would_ be funnier if you were at the extractor to witness the results of your prank. Gaster wouldn’t even try to go back to look for you there. Sans is utterly correct, except you _really don’t want to go to the extractor_.

Fortunately, you’re at least six times older than him. “Let your dad know in _any_ way where I am and you’re eating cereal for breakfast for the rest of your life.”

He glares at you before winking back out of existence, sulking.

* * *

“ _There_ you are!” Guy says, looking faintly out of breath. “Come on, Gaster’s going on a _rampage_.”

“Yeah,” you say. “That’s sort of why I’m hiding.”

“Pleeaassee?” he wheedles, and you feel pity for all of two seconds. “He made me go all the way through the longest stretch of the Core to find you! I spent an _hour_ solving puzzles just to get past security!”

“And he was right,” you point out. “I _was_ hiding here.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” he says. “Now will you _please_ go back with me so we can suck the emotions out of your Soul?”

“Okay,” you accept after a moment’s consideration. “But you know what else we can do?”

He blinks down at you, caught off guard.

You pat the patch of floor next to you welcomingly. “Make him go through security himself. Addie helped me connect the security feed to my laptop, c’mon, we can watch him as he suffers.”

Guy pauses for a moment, stunned, like you’ve managed to shift his entire worldview. And then he hunkers down next to you. “Man, he’s so _mean_ to me,” he says miserably.

You pat his back comfortingly. “I know, buddy. I know.”

* * *

"Oh fuck," you say, watching Gaster clip though another path full of lasers. "Sometimes I forget about his magic time bullshit, and then it just comes right back around to hit me in the face."

"Man, he must _really_ be pissed if he's using his time manipulation," Guy says. "He never likes cheating through the Core puzzles."

"No, that's just because he likes making you solve them the slow way," you say, hands flying over your keyboard. "He just never does it around you."

_"What?"_ Guys says. "Man. Really? Man."

You pat him on the back again. "You'd know if you checked the security feeds once in a while like you're supposed to," you say.

He squints. "How do _you_ know about that?"

"I have my ways," you blank, watching Gaster's alarmingly quick progress through the security feeds. "Okay, you got the switches?"

"Give me a second," he says, hands fluttering along the switches and joysticks. "Yeah, just— _there!"_

The lasers reappear, hallway reforming to shift him further back. Gaster swears, blurring on screen as he dodges, then reappears very close to the camera. _Fuck you_ , you think he mouths. The pointed middle fingers appear a second later.

"I brought snacks!" Axol says, bag of chips in hand. Sans peers out from behind their gills. "What's happening?"

Gaster scowls at the camera, then presses a hand against the wall to his side.

"yikes," Sans says, and blips out.

"Yikes?" you echo.

"Yikes," Axol confirms, shutting the door. "Guy?"

"On it," he says. "Okay, magic shields up. Get ready, human."

And then the world shifts beneath your feet

* * *

"That was totally cheating, you know," you tell him, leaning back comfortably in the admittedly gorgeous extractor. "You can't just _rearrange the Core_."

"Well you see, the issue with that argument is that _I just did_ ," he counters, tapping your hands. You take the electrodes. "Funny how that works, isn't it?"

"Yeah, like a _cheater_ ," you say, hooking yourself up to the impractically large wires. "You're no fun, you know that? Killjoy. Bastard. Gaster the Baster."

He makes a face.

"Yeah, no I realized when I said it," you say. "Give me time, I'll come up with something eventually."

"Infinite monkey theorem agrees," he says, straight faced. "But go on, you were saying?"

"Act one scene one, Elsinore. A platform before the castle, Francisco at his post, enter to him Bernardo— _Who's there?"_ you say, gesturing grandly. "...But if that was a _humans are monkeys_ joke, don't you dare."

"Well fuck," he says. 

That startles a real laugh out of you. "Wait, really?"

"Not anymore, evidently," he says, tapping at the wires again. You watch as he flips the switches— one, two, and then—

* * *

The world goes dark.

**_CONTINUE?_ **

_"Do I have a way of saying no?" you ask, unimpressed._

**_NO_ **

_Somehow you're not surprised._

_"Fine, yeah, let's just get this over with."_

**_CONTINUE?_ **

_Yes._

* * *

"....Gaster, you _dick_ ," you manage, weakly, throat dry and lungs heavy. You take a shallow breath, barely able to open your eyelids. "... _fuck_ you."

"You _were_ the one that suggested taking more than I originally planned," he says, miffed. "If you hadn't changed the amount drawn from your Soul you'd have had enough to withstand my magic pressure."

"...I changed it? Because otherwise? I would literally? Die? Of electrocution?" you say, wheezing slightly, crumpled in the extractor seat.

"Your point?"

You don't have enough air to laugh. "Fuck you, shut up and help me."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, and that's when you realize that while you'd been complaining, he'd unhooked the majority of the cables. Huh. you are _out_ of it. "Brace yourself."

You forcibly loosen your jaw in preparation, because you're rather fond of your teeth and you're fairly certain that his magic is completely capable of shattering them. You bear the full crush of his magic field for a moment pressed back in the chair, and then it disappears as suddenly as it appeared, connection finally terminated. " _Jesus_ ," you gasp out, air returning to your lungs. "Jesus _fuck_ I hate you. So much."

He holds his hand up. You stop talking as he presses his other hand against his face. 

"..."

The remaining pressure in the room suddenly stops. You weren't even aware of it until he suppresses it again. You wave your fingers in front of yourself delightedly, feeling oddly light. 

"Okay," he says finally, straightening out his labcoat, hand still over the cracks in his face. "Extraction over, everything's cleaned up now, lower the magic barriers."

The door bangs open again. You forcibly experience flashbacks.

"Stars _above_ ," somebody snaps, rushing over. They're on fire. Why are they on fire? "What the hell is wrong with you?"

You open your mouth to respond, but get a fiery finger pointed at your face instead.

You hear Gaster snicker. "Hey Grillby."

"No, shut up, shut up," Grillby says. _"Stars_ , I'm so mad at both of you. You think we don't have equipment to deal with electrical redistribution? Huh? You couldn't take two minutes to ask another pseudo-Boss for assistance? The human just _had_ to take the difference out of her Soul instead? Her HP dipped _way_ below normal for a moment there, this is _not_ a joke."

Gaster frowns, Checks you, and then says, "...no?"

"Well I _said_ it was for a moment," Grillby huffs. "Since, you know, I was actually _monitoring_ the entire time, since _Sans_ is the one that had to get me. What happens next time, when her HP isn't overcharged from eating too much magical food, which, _by the way_ , hasn't been tested on humans yet? You could have _asked me first."_

"Dots said that his tech hasn't been calibrated for humans yet," you point out. "And I literally had no idea you even existed, since, you know. Humans aren't supposed to still be alive once they fall down? Wait— you said _Sans_ told you? Is he just—"

"He _told me_ because he realized that you two were being _stupid,_ " he says, exasperated. "It would take two weeks! Gaster could have told me! What the hell were you _thinking?_ "

"That we're facing overpopulation and famine and that blacking out is far better than death," Gaster says, unruffled.

He has a point.

Grillby waves a hand in your face again. "No! You were being _stupid_ , because you were _excited_ to have a new human plaything and a new batch of Determination and _you—"_ he whirls, flames flaring. " _You_ just got caught up in messing around with magic and so you didn't stop to _think!_ "

"No think, only eat hotchip and lie?" you offer, backing up slightly until Gaster's in his line of sight instead of you. You have no idea how he managed to get such an accurate read on you in three minutes, but he's not _wrong_ "...I'm sorry."

He makes a garbled noise that sounds a bit like he's dying.

"If you're about done?" Gaster says.

"I'm _not!"_

"Really?" he asks. "Why?"

Grillby makes another screechy dying-animal noise.

Gaster sighs. "Grillby," he says. "You know as well as I do that recharge will take a whole month, at _least,_ no matter what. The human _didn't_ die, we have the numbers on how much HP it takes, and we're on a time limit. The human didn't even pass out. We knew about the HP dip, they overcharged their HP on purpose, and we were right. And you _know_ what will happen if Asgore is pushed into action."

"Don't _fucking_ lecture at me, Wingdings," Grillby says, hand pointing up at his face. "I was there when you got those, because you didn't _listen_ to my advice the first time."

" _Your advice_ was to kill the human before they killed me!"

"And look what happened! They died anyways and you _still_ got those fucking scars!"

_"I was six years old!"_

"You wanna kiss him so bad it makes you look stupid," you say, crossing your legs.

They fall silent.

Grillby coughs uncomfortably. "Well."

Gaster runs a hand down his face. "I will _pay_ you to shut up," he says, incredibly exhausted. "Shut up, get your ass to the medbay, and never say those words in that order ever again."

"Whoreeesss," you sing under your breath as you pass them. "Ooooh, you wanna kithhhhh, you wanna kith him _so bad—"_

You're forcibly removed from the extraction room.

* * *

"I see you've met Grillby," Axol says.

_"Met_ isn't exactly the word I'm thinking of," you say.

They shrug. "Do you _want_ an introduction?"

You remember the tug of being pulled between two magic fields. "Not really," you admit. 

Axol slows down a little. "They're not usually like that," they say. "I know that's not— but they aren't. I know that much magic can be—overwhelming, but they're not. They just have..."

"Bad memories, I get it," you say. "Don't worry about it."

Axol pauses, though, turning to face you. "No," they say again. "You don't get it— we _never_ expected to see a human again in our lifetime. You know how long we've been trapped down here?"

You struggle to remember. "At least a couple centuries."

" _Exactly_ ," they say, seriously. "And two humans have fallen down here over the last twenty years. Two humans out of _four_."

You blanch a little. "Oh."

"Boss Monsters— and the pseudo Bosses, the ones with Boss level magic— they effectively live forever," Axol says. "And this—"

But your mind has already moved on to other things. "Wait," you say, cutting them off. "Wait, they live _forever_?"

"Yes," Axol says, patient. "Their magic—"

"Holy _fuck_ ," you say, already dashing back the way you came. "Holy _fuck_ , they're _immortal!"_

_"Human,"_ Axol says, behind you. "What—?"

"They're immortal!" you repeat, enthused. "They're _immortal."_

Magic is real, and you have _ideas_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if any schools are mentioned in game but i called the college/university type thing “Scool” bc its cool,,,,,, get it,,,, Bc,,,, its a school,,,,, and its cool,,,,,, and its. its in hotland,,,,,,,,  
> yeah im. just gonna go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl im getting tired of slowburn,,,, like don’t get me wrong i love reading it im just running out of ideas ksjdbibhknfs someone pls help idk what to do without chapters of worldbuilding and bullshit science helpppp i have no ideassss

“Meet your very own DT,” Dots says with a flourish, motioning at the tiny vial of distilled red… something. “Feel any attachment to it? Some stirrings of affection? Long hidden feelings finally coming to the surface?”

“I’m starting to get the feeling that you’re not talking about my determination anymore,” you say drily, graciously preparing a slide of a few donated skin cells. You squint again at the vial. "Is it supposed to be so... small?"

He opens his beak and shuts it again. "Okay, I know where you're going with that, but. I'm. A bird."

"...Okay?"

He sighs. "I'm a _duck_."

You sit up, mentally blanking.

"Yeah, I get that a lot," he says.

You blink dumbly. "I have so many questions."

"That's what _she_ said," Dots says miserably. "Ask away, it's only fair, I suppose."

* * *

The door shuts behind you with a _click_.

“Fuck,” you say, something twisting the corners of your mouth as you slam your hand against the wall.

“Fuck,” Gaster agrees, magic flaring and throbbing like a drumbeat in the air.

You…

You’re accustomed to failure in the first trials. This is— well, technically, your engineer brain knows that for a fresh off the griddle test run, you’re actually getting a _higher_ margin of success than anybody could reasonably expect.

But _one cc_.

That’s… _barely_ any more than already exists within a monster.

You can do basic math, when the need for it arises. And your math is telling you that this is going to take a very, very long time.

And—

Well, it's not like it's _news_. You'd known when you'd started— but _seeing_ your results in person drives it home.

You're never going back to the surface.

That is, unless...

"You need an agricultural engineer, don't you?" you say, voice calm, detached, like you're watching yourself from a distance. "I've seen your papers, food production is going to fall short of the projected population needs within five years."

"Those were supposed to be private," Gaster says, disgruntled. He eyes you, mouth set in a line over his interlocked hands. And then he sighs. "Go on then, where are you going with this?"

"Lucky for you," you grin, hard and angry. "That there happens to be a human from the surface with experience in an aquaponics lab in need of a job."

You feel a spike in his field, and his eyes narrow. "How—"

"Before you accuse me of anything— yes, I did see the blueprints for your hydroponics system, but no, I'm not lying," you say, speaking rapidly now that you know he's as good as acquiesced. "I'm a biologist and I wanted anything that would keep me out of med school for a while— so: agriculture."

"Dots would throw a tantrum to hear you say that."

"Dots would agree with me because he knows the pain, _you_ don't get to talk," you counter. "But! I'll handle the food problem so you can have free time to work on other stuff, it all works out, doesn't it?"

"And in return you want...?"

You flutter your hand over your heart, your face the very picture of shock. "Are you accusing me of ulterior motives?"

He doesn't indulge you.

You scowl and take the marker out of your bag to rewrite _FUCKING DICK_ on his whiteboard.

Gaster waits patiently as you carefully dot your _I's_ with hearts before whirling back around to point at him and announce: "I want your immortality."

He waits a second longer, carefully silent.

You scowl, preemptively cutting him off. "If you're trying to make a _I thought that was a joke_ joke, then don't."

He raises his hands in the air. "Fine then. How do you plan on going about taking my immortality?"

"Not _taking_ it," you say, hands on hips. You pause, and then reconsider. "But killing you would be a bonus now that you mention it, yes."

He rolls his eyelights.

"It's nothing any more intrusive than what you've put me through," you say, cajoling. "C'mon, we both know you don't want to be stuck on biosystems when you could be working on ways to get us out of here."

He considers it for a moment longer before slumping down on his desk. "Fine."

"It's a deal then, Dingaling," you say, slow smile spreading across your face. Gaster flips you off with the hand that's not over his eyes.

* * *

" _Axol_ ," you sing, peeking around the doorway.

"Human," they return, glancing up from their computer. "What's this about?"

"I'm here for a consultation fee," you say, delighting in the way their face immediately scrunches up.

"Who made that decision without talking to me first?"

"Me, the human, in need of money," you say, spinning out a nearby chair to beam at them. "C'mon, aren't you going to ask me what it's for?"

They sigh and then say indulgently, "What's this mercenary scheme to accrue Gold consultation fee ostensibly for?"

"I'm _so_ glad you asked!" you announce, arms flung out grandiosely. "I'm taking over the Underground's agricultural infrastructure, I know, I know, no need for applause."

Axol visibly takes several deep, calming breaths. "And I don't suppose it's too much to hope that Gaster bothered to at least attempt to dissuade you?"

You grin. "Sorry."

Axol sighs. "You _do_ know the issues with your plan, I'm assuming."

"Besides the paperwork nightmare you'll have to deal with?"

Their face sours. "Yes, besides that."

You smile hopefully.

They sigh again. You seem to be eliciting that reaction quite a lot today. "He only started doing it in the first place as a personal favor to the King."

You squint. "Alongside the fact that people would literally die otherwise, right?"

Axol spares you a look.

You nod. "Right, totally unrealistic, go on."

"The king that wants you dead," Axol enunciates slowly.

"Right," you nod again, rapidly. "Right, right, the king, the king that wants me dead, that king, right."

They sigh.

* * *

"Why am I doing this, again?" you say, perched on the edge of Gaster's desk.

"Because Axol seems to be under the impression that you don't know what you're getting into," he says. An extra hand manifests itself before your eyes to steal your expo marker.

"Hey, what the heck," you say. He ignores you in favor of continuing his calculations for what you think is a way to turn back time in the Void to bypass the formation of the barrier.

"So. Tell me about your plan to reform Underground agriculture," he says, attention blatantly focused on what his disembodied hand is writing on the whiteboard over your shoulder.

"First step involves me, your bank account, and credit fraud," you say. "Second step involves me, your son, and bureaucracy. Third step involves me, Guy, and a date with kerosene."

The squeaking behind you stops. His eyes slide back to you. "What was the second one supposed to be?"

"Bribery," you say flippantly. "I'm helping Sans file for emancipation in exchange for two teleports a day."

Gaster's face doesn't change, but you think you see a flicker of... _uncertainty_. Suddenly, you feel like shit.

"It's nothing personal," you say, internally wincing, because as much as he pretends otherwise he obviously _adores_ his children _and_ is insecure about his parenting, and you're a fucking idiot. "He just thinks it would be funny to be able to write a legally valid will."

He snorts, marker back to chugging out notes on the whiteboard. "You know the real reason is probably because he's trying to go into real estate, right?"

You make a face. "What? Ew, no, what? Really? What?"

"Mhm, he heard Axol talking about property prices the other day, he wants a hand in the market while it's still profitable."

You scrunch up your face. "That's _disgusting_ , oh my god, I'm enabling a _real estate broker_."

Gaster huffs a laugh. "But on the upside, you get to hear him make puns about wills for the rest of your life."

"The illusion of choice is difficult and agonizing," you lament. "But a sacrifice that has to be made— hey, c'mon, shouldn't you be grilling me or something? Making sure I actually know what I'm doing about agriculture?"

He spares you a dismissive glance. "Do you?"

"Yes!" you say. "But—"

"It's enough for me," he shrugs. "Unless, of course... you _don't?_ "

"No, fuck you, I _do_ , I'm the best goddamn aquaculturist you've ever fucking seen," you say. "Plants in water, boom, there you go, you've got yourself hydroponics."

"How much confidence that inspires within me," he deadpans. "Surely, there couldn't possibly be _more_ wisdom bursting from your veritable fountain of knowledge."

You swoon dramatically back, hand fluttering over your forehead. "Alas, the rays of enlightenment—"

"—say that you _still_ need to fill out your paperwork," Axol interrupts, cracking open the door to peer in disapprovingly. "Really, can I not trust you two with _anything_?"

"No."

"Not at all!"

They sigh. "Yes, okay, I see that now."

* * *

"Human populations grow much faster than monster, and so human agricultural technology is more highly developed out of sheer necessity," you chatter, hands waving expressively in the air and heeled boots propped up on the corner of the desk.

" _Again_ , I don't need any convincing whatsoever, will you please just _leave_?"

"Really, the difference in scale of industrialization is almost astounding. Farmers here pour their personal magic into the soil as a cure-all to any and all deficiencies their plants face— including sunlight, right up until the development of the Core popularized artificial light."

"Yes, I'm the one that _wrote_ the report that you got that little factoid from."

"And there are _no_ synthetically produced fertilizers at all! Better for the environment, admittedly, but do you really have time to think about that with the threat of overpopulation so imminent?"

"How much satisfaction do you derive from this?"

"Oh, _loads_ ," you assure him. "Speaking of loads, what's up with the whole vitamin D thing? The amount of micronutrients—"

"Oh my fucking _stars_ , what do you _want_ from me?"

"I'm _so_ glad you asked!" you say, sitting forward. Gaster stops scribbling long enough to turn around and face you.

"If this is about Sans' legal emancipation—"

"What? Oh, no, no, not that. I need you to sign this new employee form, Axol didn't want to do it themselves. They're headed home early, I think?"

A moment's pause.

"I fucking hate you," he says, purple cloud of magic snatching the paper out of your grip. 

"I know," you say, stretching out contentedly. He summarily tosses you out of his office. Your now-signed papers follow a second later.

* * *

"I can log you onto the system," Addie tells you hesitantly.

"But?" you say, sensing the coming qualifier.

"But our bureaucracy still hasn't completely transferred to online filing," she continues. "You'll need to turn this is yourself."

You stay quiet.

"...at the Capital," Addie says. "Not directly to Asgore though! Just... about... two floors away...? Maybe three!" she hastily says at the look on your face. "It's... fine...?"

You stare at her.

"It's fine!" she says, more sure now. "It's just Records, first corridor to the right of the Capitol, can't miss it! Oh, if you're heading out, could you take these to Axol? They're the bubble house in Waterfall— you have enough Gold for the ferry, right?"

You accept the stack of manila envelopes. "Yeah, sure, anything else?"

"Nope!" she says. "Just take that elevator over there, you're authorized personnel now. Good luck!"

You're not kicked out of the room, but it sure feels like it.

* * *

You quickly scramble out of the elevator and down towards the city, curiously snooping through the first manila folder. It's all financials, _boring._ You check your phone instead, absorbed in a rapidly going viral electroswing remix of what you think is Spinal Tap. You're wondering what, exactly, it's supposed to be when the world goes black.

"Again?" you say, indignant. You then remember that the only reason anybody would draw you into an encounter would be because they were curious about you, and then they would find out that you're...

"Ah, fuck," you say. You squint, and you... _think_ they're a Froggit? At the very least, they certainly look like a frog. You hesitate for a second, and then Act, the bare bones of a plan unraveling in your mind. With any luck, you won't _have_ to deescalate.

Your options read _FLIRT,_ _THREATEN,_ and _LIE_.

Well _that's_ rude, you're not planning on _lying_ , just... being a little misleading.

"Look, I know you're... _probably_ confused, I mean— hey, I get it, there's not a ton of monsters like me, huh? But, uh... I'm... _kind of_ in a hurry— work, you know? I'd be happy to talk, though! Just— ugh, look, I _really_ gotta turn this stuff in. I _promise_ I'll come back to talk to you later! I know you probably just wanna Check me, but... well. Please? I'll make it up to you, I swear, but I gotta run!"

The Froggit ribbits genially at you and hops away.

Huh. 

It... worked?

Nice!

You keep your eyes peeled to avoid any more encounters, only relaxing once you're well on the main streets. Friendly as everybody may be, there's still _some_ sense of city-like keep-to-yourself-mentality, at least to the point where it would be rude to draw you into an Encounter for nothing but idle curiosity.

You turn the corner and enter the Capitol. _First corridor on the right._ You find the Records Room easily enough. You exchange perfunctory nods with the bespectacled and bespeckled reptilian lady behind the desk, hand over your forms, and then promptly decide to get some lunch.

Axol can wait, probably. 

You nose around the city, eventually settling on a street vendor that's selling falafel. You steadily make your way to Hotland, thanking the stars that you'd bought your boots— you weren't lying, you _are_ going to see the Froggit at the elevator again, just not now. You're taking the scenic route back to Waterfall, that's hardly a crime.

You crunch thoughtfully on a cucumber as you pick your way around the catwalk that runs above the Core to the interior of Hotland, folding back the crisp paper from the sandwich. Taboon bread means finely milled flour, the tahini sauce means sesame, and the croquettes are chickpea and fava bean— all fairly staple crops. You lick a bit of hot sauce from the corner of your mouth, and it has the flat, packaged taste of mass-production, so. A condiment industry. You delicately rub your fingertips together and smell canola oil, which is the real surprise.

You pause a little before the first vent, finishing the last bite of your falafel before tossing the wrapper in the conveniently placed nearby trash bin. Like a true child of your generation, you do not proceed with the puzzle, but instead rock back on your heels and waste time messing around on your phone.

Though you're busy scrolling through the latest news, your brain still stuck on the greasy paper wrap. The fritters weren't bitter, they tasted _normal,_ but you're certain they were fried in a rapeseed oil. _Canola_ , then, the specific cultivar developed in the late 1900s and bred for low levels of otherwise naturally occurring erucic acid. You.. _guess_ that it's possible that feral populations could have found their way underground, but there's more than that.

Canola as a plant requires vernalization to flower— exposure to low temperatures for a prolonged period of time. It's not a problem on the surface, normally, where winter is sufficient to kickstart the process. But Waterfall, the hub of agricultural activity, is kept at a fairly constant climate for the comfort of semi-aquatic monsters like Axol. And you already know that the amount of climate controlled greenhouses Underground is approximately zero.

It's _not_ a detail that anybody should know or care about, but it's a _fact_ , something _just_ small enough to slip under the radar, to be brushed aside... 

You abruptly stand back up, antsy, and hop into the vent, letting it carry you _far_ away from the oiled paper in the wastebasket.

You can't keep Axol waiting, after all!

* * *

_hey mom, hey dad,_

_You probably won’t see me again. You probably won’t even be alive to read this letter, unless somebody’s bastardized my research and managed to universalize immortality while I was away._

_I’m going to be down here for the rest of my life._ ~~_We tried to speed it up, we really did, but there was so much energy loss and it’s so hard to regenerate emotions_~~ _I’ll die of old age if I’m lucky. Of first degree murder if I’m not._

_I think I’m going to be lucky, though. We have a plan. It’s going to take a while,_ ~~_hence the dying_~~ _but I’ll be able to live out the rest of my life naturally. And happily, too, I think._

_I miss you, and I miss the sun and the surface. But there’s magic down here, and I don’t think I’d choose to give that up, even if I had the option._

_You raised me right, after all. I’m sorry for worrying you, and I’m sorry for making you sad. But if you manage to psychically divine this letter_ _~~and I can’t even joke about it anymore~~ , _ _don’t be. I’m doing interesting work— good work. I’m helping people. You always wanted me to be a doctor, but I think this is better. So don’t be sad, I’m well off and let’s be honest, I barely visit anyways._

_i love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay for the dude wondering abt aus. I have no clue what ur talking abt. But like i guess for underfell or whatever the hell that is like,,,,, they’re just both a lot ruder?  
> aka:  
> MC: wtf why did you tell Guy he's a disgrace to his family because he peaked as a gifted child but now currently lacks any real practical skills and is slowly becoming obsolete in the current age of technology with no way to catch up to those that actually learned how to work hard to get where they are now  
> Gaster: he is though  
> MC:  
> MC: well YEAH but you dont have to SAY it he started CRYING  
> Gaster:  
> MC: he’s a raccoon!! With fire powers!!! He was CRYING. You made a FIRE RACCOON cry!!! HE DOESNT EVEN HAVE TEAR GLANDS  
> Gaster: like youre any better, you only care about Guy to spite me  
> Mc: well at least i PRETEND to be nice to ppl  
> Gaster: yeah, yeah, whatever— wait what.


End file.
